


Built to Love

by FrostbitePanda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: "medium burn", Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, As well, Because it's me, Before Season 7, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Smut, Tumblr Prompt, White Harbor, Winterfell, and "medium fic", and after season 6, but then not really, i just needed some self indulgence, im just a soft bitch, it's complicated - Freeform, just go with it, obligatory arranged marriage, our two idiots are idiots, take this with a grain of salt please, the timeline is weird and somewhat mruky, the wedding i never got to write, unbetaed, what do you expect, with a dash of angst, written with a friend in need in mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostbitePanda/pseuds/FrostbitePanda
Summary: It was nearly as bleak as Dragonstone, and nearly as beautiful. She had resented leaving her home after so long a wait to regain it and so short a stay amidst its walls, but Tyrion had insisted. “For him to come here will be as though he is naught but a supplicant. And the same will be said of you if you travel directly to Winterfell. Best it is done somewhere in the middle.”This Jon Snow had better be worth it.(another arranged marriage fic no one asked for. based on a tumblr prompt.)





	1. Tested and Pained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashleyfanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyfanfic/gifts).



“Strange news from Westeros, Your Grace,” Tyrion declared as he walked into, annoyingly unannounced, her solar. He unrolled a scroll with raised eyebrows.

 

“Oh?” Daenerys asked from her perch on the bench beside the window, trying her best not to wince as Missandei weaved her magic into the braids crowning her head. The sea winds would whip her hair into a wicked tangle if not plaited properly, her friend had warned. Dany had decided that she might as well become used to it. 

 

She was going home within a few short days. The sounds of ships being loaded and readied from the harbor could be heard even from the towering heights of the Great Pyramid. 

 

She wouldn’t miss this place, she had told herself, with its brutal angles and strange scents and stranger customs. But now that the day in question was growing ever nearer, she felt as much dread as she did excitement. 

 

“Mm,” her Hand answered with pursed lips, “it seems as though a suitor has finally emerged from the veritable wasteland of eligible bachelors that is the Seven Kingdoms at present.”

 

She felt her heart rise in her throat. She had hoped that that this particular…  _ issue _ would not present itself again until she had at least settled herself into her ancestral home in a few days time-- if all went as planned, that was. As a queen, she had both the mind and the stomach to face the uncomfortable reality of another political match, but... as a  _ woman _ , she was not so sure she possessed the patience for it so soon after her sham of a union with Hizdahr zo loraq.

 

“And who is this man I am to marry?” she asked coolly. Missandei cleared her throat. 

 

“You seem more sure than I am in this pact, Your Grace,” Tyrion replied with a wry grin. “For if the man in question is still the man I once knew, he may very well reject such an offer if I were to send him one.”

 

She raised her eyebrows at that, giving a disbelieving chuff. “I don’t mean to sound egotistical, my lord, when I express my doubts that said man would reject our offer out of hand.” 

 

Tyrion shrugged. “He’s a right stubborn bastard. Who am I to say?” 

 

“You’re not selling this man very well, my lord. I wonder why this mysterious suitor should be considered so seriously if you think so ill of him.”

 

Missandei snorted from behind her as she deftly tied off one of her braids. Tyrion smirked.

 

“Stubbornness is not always a disagreeable quality in a person, Your Grace. I think you would agree.” 

 

Dany shot him a look. “Clever, my lord,” she replied, “so what is this man’s name and why should I consider him a good match?” 

 

“Jon Snow,” her Hand said somewhat worriedly. “Not the best or most powerful name, to be sure, but it seems that despite his bastard’s name, he has been named King in the North. And a king is a king, afterall, no matter the name he bears.”

 

“King in the North?” Dany asked skeptically. “So, you aim to match me with a rebel king?”

 

Tyrion bounced on the balls of his feet, wagging a finger at her. “A rebel king to  _ Cersei _ , my queen. A very important distinction. And there is perhaps no family in all of the Seven Kingdoms that has better reason to want to see my dear sister deposed… in more ways than one.” 

 

“The enemy to my enemy is my friend,” Dany recited with a ghost of a smile, a small thrill running through her at the idea, though she still shrank from the thought of marriage pacts and prickly, wild-eyed Northmen. Tyrion inclined his head as he dragged the spindly stool from her writing desk and sat across from her. “What more can you tell me about the King of the North, my lord?”

 

“Jon Snow and I are actually friends.” Her eyebrows shot up at that. “Well, we were… in the loosest sense of the term,” he clarified. “It’s been years, but he and I travelled to the Wall together--” he stopped short, wrinkling his brow and looking to the scroll in his hand. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

“Just… last I heard of Jon Snow, he had been named Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

 

Dany simply stared, coming to terms with how ignorant she truly was about the customs of her homeland. “The Night’s Watch?”

 

“The ancient order of sentinels that guard the Wall, the far northern border of your realm, Your Grace.” He shook his head, looking utterly mystified. “I just don’t understand… the oath of the Night’s Watch is taken for life.” 

 

It was Dany’s turn to grow dumbfounded. “So not only is this Jon Snow a stubborn rebel king, but he is also an oath breaker? My lord--”

 

“Jon Snow is a good man,” Tyrion asserted, strangely defensive. “Yes, he is in open rebellion to the crown that you seek to claim, and yes… the oath of the Night’s Watch is taken for life, but if I know anything about Jon Snow is that he would never break a vow without exceedingly good reason.”

 

She scoffed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes as Missandei put the finishing touches on her hair. “What reason would that be, my lord? That he grew bored with his title of Lord Commander and sought a throne instead?”

 

“Perhaps,” Tyrion conceded with a frown, “but last I heard of, Winterfell was under the heel of the Boltons and, my former wife Sansa Stark and Jon Snow’s half-sister, had been wed to Roose Bolton’s contemptible bastard son.”

 

He leaned forward, offering her the scroll between two fingers. “It seems that Winterfell has been returned to its rightful owners and that Ramsay Bolton is dead,” he continued. “And the North rewarded the bastard son of Eddard Stark by naming him their king.” Tyrion lifted his eyebrows at her in that way he always did when he was about to say something he thought would be particularly persuasive. “It takes quite a person to earn the title of ruler, rather than inherit it.”

 

She warmed at that, smiling at her Hand fondly before unrolling the scroll. She scanned over it quickly, written in an unfamiliar hand. “I assume this information comes from your friend lord Varys?”

 

“I have sworn myself to secrecy on these matters, but yes, my queen,” Tyrion answered as he took the scroll back from her and she laughed. “It appears that he has been doing much more than simply cajoling Dorne and Highgarden to your cause.”

 

“So, you believe that Jon Snow broke his oath to the Night’s Watch to win back his family’s home and rescue his sister from her contemptible husband?”

 

Tyrion gave her a small, triumphant smile, his green eyes glinting knowingly in the pale blue glow of the morning. “Jon Snow is Sansa Stark’s last living sibling. She had no one else to turn to. What better reason to abandon your post, Your Grace?”

 

She pulled her lips over her teeth, unable to find one single reason to protest this statement. She cleared her throat after a time. “He sounds like quite a man.”

 

Tyrion shrugged, looking satisfied with himself, before sliding off the stool to presumably fetch a flagon of wine and two cups for them both. In the silence, Dany read over the scroll once more. ‘ _ Bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark’... _ son of the best friend and former Hand to the Usurper was conveniently omitted. ‘ _ Youngest ever Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch in a century’ _ the scroll went on.  _ ‘Brought the Wildlings south of the Wall for reasons unknown.’ _

 

Now  _ that _ was certainly interesting. Dany did not know much of anything about the Wildlings of the North, but she could assume from their disparaging name, that they were not well liked in the Seven Kingdoms. She was familiar with such an enmity— her Dothraki being labeled as “savages” more often than not. 

 

Tyrion returned with a cut crystal decanter in his arm and two goblets dangling from his fingers as Daenerys passed the scroll to Missandei. 

 

“So,” Tyrion began smartly as he pulled the stopper from the decanter and began to pour. “What do you think, Your Grace?”

 

“Is he comely, my lord?” Missandei asked suddenly. Dany and Tyrion both looked at her-- Dany, amused, and Tyrion completely lost. “Forgive me, I know that such things are not strictly… required for such a union, but…” She shrugged and Dany couldn’t help but laugh as she turned back to her Hand with her eyebrow quirked.

 

Tyrion gaped for a moment, looking uncomfortable. “I think you ladies both know that I am not the best judge in this manner… and besides, it’s been years since I last saw the man. He was not much more than a boy when we parted ways.”

 

“So we can assume he’s an ogre, then,” Daenerys provided dryly and Missandei snorted. 

 

Tyrion shook his head firmly. “No, no… I never said that.” He huffed, his brow scrunched in costernation. “I suppose… if I were a woman, I would find him-- oh, what does it matter?”

 

Dany raised her eyebrows with a scoff. “Would you not be curious as to what a woman you were to marry looks like, my lord?”

 

Tyrion wilted at that. He was silent for a moment, lost in thought. “He has a lot of hair.”

 

Dany pulled a face, looking over to Missandei, who’s crestfallen expression matched Dany’s own inner disappointment. She had already been imaging some hairy, barbarian-type. She had hoped that perhaps Tyrion could prove her wrong on  _ that  _ account at least. 

 

Tyrion looked quizzically from Missandei to Dany. “What?” he asked, spreading his hands. “I thought women  _ liked _ hair.”

 

“It’s no matter,” Dany dismissed, still laughing, though feeling a leaden weight grow in her belly. This talk was growing more and more solid and plausible with every new fact learned, rather than more and more hypothetical. Her Hand seemed determined, when just a day ago he had told her that a smart political marriage in Westeros’ current climate appeared exceedingly remote. “What more can you or your friend lord Varys tell me of this Jon Snow? What can his new kingdom offer to our cause?”

 

Tyrion paused, considering, maybe a bit relieved that the conversation had been brought back on track. “Varys says that there are tales circulating that Jon Snow slew over 50 men by himself in the battle to win back Winterfell. That he is now considered to be the greatest swordsman living. Perhaps ever.” He sighed, sipping his wine. “I’ve never known Northmen to exaggerate… much.”

 

Dany felt herself warm at that. Though she abhorred violence, it  _ was _ a necessary ally in the campaign to scrub evil from the world. And, to be frank, she could not deny that a proficiency at it was something of an… attractive quality to her. Her only lovers had been men of violence, afterall. But, most men relished in it. A facet she did not enjoy, and it seemed that this Jon Snow was no different. 

 

“And,” Tyrion went on, referring to his scroll again, “as to how many men the North has to offer, I assume not as many as you may like. The War of the Five Kings was not kind to the North, and their armies have been run… thin.”

 

“So why should I be so quick to marry this man?” Dany asked primly. “If he has but paltry forces at his disposal, after Cersei is dealt with, it should be no trouble to bring the King of the North to heel.” 

 

Tyrion wagged his finger at her. “That’s where you’re wrong, Your Grace,” he said. “The North is vast. Larger than the other six kingdoms combined. And it is protected to the south by a mire of swamps that are nay impassable.” He waved a hand at her, eyes questioning. “What sounds more appealing to you? Waging yet another war on what is, for all intents and purposes, your own realm after you’ve won your throne? Or simply bringing the North into the fold with a few words exchanged in front of a septon?”

 

Dany was silent at that, her skin growing strangely cold. Missandei crept from the room, having put all her brushes and clips away, feeling the tension climb.

 

“Besides,” Tyrion pressed, licking his lips. “Varys tells me that Sansa Stark has the Vale under her sway. The Vale has been absent in war until the fight to win back Winterfell. Their armies are some of the finest in the land. At least six thousand mounted knights if my memory serves.”

 

She swallowed, feeling thrilled and queasy all at once. Everything that Tyrion had to say about this mysterious man a world away was both too good to be true and also tragically binding. A seemingly good man, who had earned the title of king, and had broken his promises only to save his sister and his home. A man who ruled over a vast and wild realm, with alliances of his own that could prove vital to her cause. 

 

How could she refuse? Or at least not even consider? She had hoped she could have dismissed the idea entirely, saved her heart from the anguish of such a thing for at least a while longer, but it seemed a selfish fancy in light of what all her Hand had just told her.

 

“Very well,” she said stiffly, straightening her spine like the queen she was. “Write to this Jon Snow, my lord Hand.” She paused, allowing Tyrion his moment of triumph. “You had better be right about this, my lord, or else you may not smile so broadly.” 

 

+++ 

 

“This can’t be true. It must be some sort of trick.”

 

His words seemed to echo loudly in the room, though Sansa’s office was cramped. His sister sat behind her cluttered desk, reading over the scroll for perhaps the dozenth time, as if committing it to memory. 

 

“Pardon, Your Grace,” Davos cut in from his place beside the fire, “but you are a king now, and an unmarried king at that. Marriage proposals are simply part of the job, I’m afraid.”

 

Jon paused in his pacing, his usual protests dying in his throat. A bastard, an oathbreaker, an orphan, a man of the Night’s Watch… but a king all the same. A king who ruled a realm that Daenerys Targaryen would be most keen on winning back if she were to take the throne. 

 

“I think it makes sense,” Sansa finally offered, placing the scroll back on her desk, her face as composed as it ever was. “Marriage is the best way to make alliances, after all.”

 

“So you approve?” Jon asked, unable to keep the heat from his voice. 

 

He had been king barely a fortnight and his head was still spinning with it. In some ways, being king was much the same as being Lord Commander, but in many more ways it could not have been more alien to him than the Shadowlands of Asshai. The raven that had arrived this morning, bearing a scroll sealed with a dragon sigil, had only served to knock him further into uncharted waters. 

 

“Not necessarily,” Sansa responded evenly. “But, it was one of the last shreds of wisdom that Little Finger imparted upon me before his execution-- a union between you and the Dragon Queen would be quite formidable.” 

 

“Little Finger?” he repeated incredulously. “I am to trust in the counsel of that snake?”

 

“He might have been a snake, Jon, but he was smart,” Sansa retorted. “We shouldn’t dismiss wisdom simply because it comes from a hateful creature.” 

 

Jon shook his head, straightening from where he had been leaning his fists upon Sansa’s desk. “I  _ can’t _ , Sansa. Not after… not after what you’ve suffered.” He shook his head, swallowing. “I won’t continue the pattern of forced marriage for political gain. It has caused nothing but grief for you and for countless others.”

 

“And it has also saved  _ thousands _ , Jon,” Sansa protested, leaning forward in her chair. “Marriages have united kingdoms and worlds, have brought wars to an end, have brought strong and lasting peace--”

 

“Like Cersei’s marriage to Robert Baratheon?” Jon cut across her angrily. “What of that? Or Joffery to--”

 

“You  _ aren’t  _ Robert Baratheon!” Sansa returned, rapping her hand on the desk to get her point across. “Or Joffery or any of those evil men! You are the son of the lord Eddard Stark, Jon, and just like our father you will build something good from whoever it is you decide to marry!” 

 

Jon fell still at that, his shoulders falling. Similarly, Sansa seemed to wilt, her ire leaving her as she looked to her hands to gather her thoughts. “You are ten times any man this queen would ever hope to marry, just for the simple fact that you would reject such a proposal for the sake of me and what I’ve been through. Much less for everything else you’ve done.” She looked up at him, her eyes kind and pleading all at once. And tired. His sister always seemed tired nowadays. “It is still  _ your _ decision, Jon. The queen says nothing of retribution for rejection and her language is not one of command. You are free to refuse, but it is in my opinion… that you would be a fool to do so.” 

 

Jon felt his stomach turn, his throat constrict. A marriage… to a queen?  _ Seven Hells... _

 

“What of her father?” he began, the protest weak even to his ears. “He burned our grandfather alive.” 

 

Sansa was silent for a time, looking to some nonspecific place on the surface of her desk. “You said it yourself,” she finally said, her voice a bit cold, “you will not blame the son for the sins of the father. Seems to me you should be able to do the same for Daenerys Targaryen.”

 

There was a note of derision that Jon knew well hidden in her tone, but he had not the strength to fight with her about it now. 

 

Davos stepped toward him, hands folded behind his back. “Think of it Your Grace,” he began quietly, “if this queen were to take the throne from Cersei Lannister, your family’s last mortal enemy I’ve come to understand, do you not think she would come to take back her kingdom?” 

 

Jon could not find one useful thing to say to this. The answer was already clear, rising from the ashes of his impotent anger plain as the sun. “And how could your people stand against a hundred thousand Dothraki, ten thousand slave soldiers and three full grown dragons, if the tales are to be believed? And to further the point, Your Grace, what is it that dragons do? What is the one thing that can kill the undead besides rare, ancient swords and a mineral we have no means of getting our hands on right now?”

 

_ Gods, _ he was bloody right and Jon knew that. But,  _ gods, _ this was the last thing he wanted to do or deal with. Some foreign queen who had ambitions he could never understand and such mystique and fantasy surrounding her he couldn’t begin to know what to believe. A woman who was wholly a stranger to him, who similarly did not know him or his home or the great threat that shadowed it and the realm she aimed to rule.

 

A woman with vast armies and creatures that breathed fire. 

 

“Meet with her, at the very least, Jon,” Sansa urged gently. “She’s even offered to rendezvous in White Harbor, with your leave, so that you may meet on more neutral ground-- as equals.” She looked to the scroll again, reading aloud. “‘A gesture of good faith to a potential partner in what could become a fruitful relationship, as well as serving to become more well acquainted with one another until a truer decision is reached on this matter.’” 

 

Jon felt something incredulous and pleasant course through him at this news. He had barely made it past the first few sentences of the scroll himself. He hadn’t even known that a more equivocal meeting place was part of the bargain. That was surprising indeed.

 

He would be a bloody fool to refuse. 

 

+++ 

 

It was bloody  _ cold _ . 

 

She suppressed a shiver, clamping her jaws together to quell their chatter. The dress she wore may have been lined in the finest mink fur, but it was not quite enough against the knifing sea winds as her ship hoved its way into the gray, choppy waters of the Bite. 

 

White Harbor loomed before them, all white and cold and frosted by snow. The hoots and guffaws of fat seals lazing upon a great, rocky spit of an island to the north intermingled with the screams of gulls and terns as they wheeled over the many fishing boats coming into port. 

 

It all seemed less a city and more a large, walled town, with orderly lines of houses and shops with steeply pitched roofs of slate. “The North’s largest settlement,” Tyrion had told her. “Though, that is not saying that much.” 

 

It was nearly as bleak as Dragonstone, and nearly as beautiful. She had resented leaving her home after so long a wait to regain it and so short a stay amidst its walls, but Tyrion had insisted. “For him to come here will be as though he is naught but a supplicant. And the same will be said of you if you travel directly to Winterfell. Best it is done somewhere in the middle.” 

 

This Jon Snow had better be worth it. 

 

She could just make out the figures of her welcome party upon the stone pier her ship was nearing. White banners with the gray, snarling face of a Direwolf emblazoned upon them whipped in the gale, along with others she could not yet make out. 

 

She felt her nerves flare with a sudden anxiety, her hands start to shake for reasons other than the cold. Missandei, garbed in her own dress and coat, grasped her hand reassuringly as her men began tossing out the mooring ropes and dropping the anchors. 

 

Dany let out a breath, closing her eyes to steady herself. She was the blood of the dragon. She would not be afraid of some rebel king of some wild realm. She had wed a warlord when she was naught but a girl, afterall. This should be no matter. 

 

She sent her mind up into the clouds, where her sons circled and wheeled out of sight, seeking out the comfort of their deadly presence. She had decided against showing them off immediately, knowing that whatever initial trust that would be forged with the North and its king would be tenuous at best. No need to bear her fiercest card just yet. 

 

“You will do fine,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” Jorah said to her from her right. “If anyone needs to be nervous, it would be me.”

 

“Or me,” Tyrion quipped, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I am about to be reunited with my former wife and her fearsome brother.”

 

Dany smiled at her advisors, her friends, all here and all offering her their strength and support, as they always did, and she found that she was not afraid anymore. 

 

The gangplank was lowered and her guard of Dothraki and Unsullied flanked her as she descended, with Jorah, Tyrion and Missandei closely behind. 

 

She had never seen Jon Snow before, but she knew who he was immediately. 

 

He wore no kingly finery save for a silver gorget with the same sigil that fluttered on the banners behind him stamped into its center. He was unarmed and uncloaked and stood with his arms held stiffly beside him— the posture of man well used to the weight of a sword on his hip. He was positioned ahead of the rest of his escort, with only an unassuming older man and a tall, red haired woman beside him.

 

All and all, it was a modest affair. Tyrion had told her of the asceticism of the North, of the general lack of regalia and ceremony that she should expect, though this man was a king. It was certainly a sentiment that Daenerys could support--- she often grew impatient with the lavish displays and intricate niceties of court, even if she understood their purpose. 

 

But Tyrion had ill-prepared her for  _ him.  _ ‘He has a lot of hair’ was about as paltry of a description as she could think of for the man in front of her. 

 

“Your Grace,” Jon Snow greeted with a stiff bow, as if he was unused to doing it. “Welcome to the North.” 

 

It took a moment for her to find her voice, so shocked by him and his…  _ striking _ features she had to shake herself a bit. “Your Grace,” she returned with a small curtsy-- a gesture she was also unaccustomed to. 

 

They stood silently for a moment, both seemingly struck dumb by the other. 

 

He was not… as tall as she had assumed. She had come to dream up many visions of her potential betrothed, all taller and burlier and hairier than the last. She had been told that he was some mighty warrior and yet he stood but inches above herself. 

 

She found herself not entirely opposed. Especially considering--

 

“Your Grace, this is Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass--” 

 

Dany held out a staying hand. “It’s alright, my friend, there’s no need for such formalities.” She turned back to Jon Snow, hands folded before her. “We come as equals, afterall.” 

 

Until now, her host had been wearing a queer, dazed look that she could not help but revel in, but something in his dark eyes cleared at her declaration— as if he were truly seeing her now. His lips twitched as he nodded. “Aye.”

 

Dany cleared her throat, because for some reason she felt rather warm. 

 

There was a pointed cough from the older man beside the king. “Ser Davos Seaworth,” Jon began after a seconds’ hesitation. “Hand to the King,” he said as he indicated the man and he bowed, just as ill-practiced as the king he served. “And Sansa Stark, my sister and Lady of Winterfell.” 

 

Sansa Stark was a beauty, standing tall and imperious and pale in the diffuse, gray light of midday.  _ Lady of Winterfell? _ Dany had assumed, as King in the North, that Jon would be lord of the castle in which he resided. A castle that had been a small factor in her consideration of offering a marriage pact to him, to be sure, but a consideration nonetheless. 

 

“Your Grace,” Sansa greeted with a perfect curtsy. A true lady of the North. 

 

Jon held out his hand, indicating the party that stood behind him. “Your Grace, may I introduce you to Wyman Manderly? He is the lord of White Harbor and my bannerman.”

 

Broad-chested, ruddy, and white-bearded, Wyman Manderly more closely resembled what Dany had envisioned for herself when she had agreed to marry a Northern king. The man bowed, though stiffly. 

 

_ “Northerners are a prickly bunch,”  _ Tyrion had warned her. _ “They are good at holding grudges and keep to their own. Don’t expect drums and dancers to welcome you.”  _

 

“Thank you, my lord, for welcoming me and my company into your home. I shall see such service rewarded.” 

 

Manderly inclined his head. “Your Grace,” he managed, most definitely strained. “May I introduce my granddaughter Wynafryd?”

 

A plump young woman with her long brown hair bound in a plait curtsied as shallowly as would be considered just barely proper and regarded her icily. 

 

Dany already had her suspicions as to the source of the young woman’s frigidity towards her, but she would reserve her judgments just yet. She was a stranger in a strange land, here. 

 

Introductions done with, Jon cleared his throat. “Your Grace.” He stepped closer to her, elbow held out in offering. “There is a horse for you, to take you to the castle. The Manderlys have prepared a feast.” 

 

Dany was shocked at this, considering Tyrion’s warning, but then, she supposed, the King in the North may have simply ordered it, no matter the reluctance of their hosts. 

 

He brought her to the end of the pier, where a retinue of guards were standing, a host of riderless horses with them for her and her company. Jon lead her to a beautiful dapple gray palfrey, resplendent in a white and gray saddle blanket. “A gift, Your Grace,” he told her, “from the Manderlys.” 

 

Dany blinked in surprise as she stepped forward to stroke the horse’s neck. “She’s beautiful.”

 

“Aye,” he said, gaze steady upon her. Something in that voice made Dany swallow, turn back to her handsome steed to distract herself. 

 

He seemed to have sensed the tension his declaration had wrought, for he twitched his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Do you need help mounting, Your Grace?”

 

She bit her lip, her accursed brain conjuring all the manner of dirty jokes and untoward thoughts at this question. 

 

“If there are no royal stairs to be had, Your Grace, then I suppose I will accept your assistance.” 

 

Any other day, she would have refused. She had mounted up herself so many times it was merely a reflex by now. But this was not any other day.

 

Jon Snow smiled, maybe a bit shocked, and he allowed himself a chuff of a laugh. He stepped closer and knelt down, making a step with his gloved hands. She stepped into them and was lifted so lightly and gracefully it was a wonder she weighed anything at all to him. 

 

_ Oh, _ she thought to herself as she gathered the reins. Stature and strength did not seem to correspond equally with this man. 

 

“The Manderlys will escort you and your people and my sister to the castle,” he told her as he stepped away. 

 

It wasn’t until then that she realized that the others had been gathering and mounting up around them, careful not to disturb them… which sobered her. She was in an unfamiliar city, among unfamiliar people who could just as soon feed her to the wolves as throw her a feast. 

 

There was a job to be done. 

 

“But my men,” she protested, looking back to the pier, “my ship. I must see them safely unboarded and housed. And… I have also brought  _ gifts _ , Your Grace, for you and your family.” 

 

Something flared in Jon Snow’s eyes at that, and a queer expression took hold of his face that she could not puzzle out before he looked away. “You’ve travelled far, Your Grace,” he said roughly. “And I know the winds were not kind. Allow me to give you the gift of rest and warmth by supervising the endeavor myself.” He looked at her, eyes squinty and oddly endearing against the wind and spray, his lips twitching. “As to your gifts, I swear to you... I will not look.” 

 

She shifted in her saddle, her lips caught in her teeth as she fought her smile, her blush. Not only was this his first “gift” to her, but there was a wholly different and… kingly gesture within it all in its own: ‘I am capable and you can trust me with what is precious to you.’ 

 

She found that she was almost… irritated. This man was vexing, defying her every expectation, and in doing so he had rendered most of her preparations moot. She had anticipated coldness, a taciturn and prickly king who would no doubt accept her proposal (Tyrion had been giddy when the raven from Winterfell arrived-- “ _ an acceptance to this parley is as good as a wedding vow from Jon Snow!”) _ , but would not care one whit to try to  _ court _ her. 

 

Gods, this was either going to be entirely too easy, or terribly difficult. “Very well, Your Grace,” she finally managed. “Until supper.”

 

“Aye,” he answered. 

 

Jon Snow stepped away and Wyman Manderly gave the command and the escort began their path to the great castle at the top of the hill.

 

She tried very hard (and failed) to not look back. 

 

+++ 

 

“You look  _ nice _ ,” his sister insisted from behind him. 

 

Jon shook his head, studying himself in the silverglass. “I look like some fancy pants lord.” 

 

“Well, you are a king you know,” Sansa retorted, pulling at the seams at his shoulders. 

 

“Aye, but…” he trailed off, smoothing his hands over the slate gray doublet. It was a handsome thing, to be sure, but something about it set his teeth on edge. He felt entirely sure that the Dragon Queen, former wife to a Dothraki warlord, would not be particularly impressed with a suitor resplendent in fine velvets and silks. He could not name the nature of his certitude, and it rattled him. “Pod, fetch me my gambeson.” 

 

“A  _ gambeson _ ?” Sansa cried. “Jon, you can’t be serious.”

 

“Tell me, Sansa,” Jon said as he discarded the doublet and threaded his arms through the sleeves of said article of clothing that Pod was holding ready for him. “Do you have much experience in courting queens?”

 

Sansa rolled her eyes. “No, but Jon--” 

 

“Neither do I,” he interrupted as he began lacing up. “So why should I listen to you anymore than myself?”

 

“Because I have actual experience in court,” she explained as if talking to a child. “I know more about these things than you do.” 

 

He tied off the last lace and sighed. “Aye, that you do,” he gentled, “but Daenerys Targaryen is not some noble lady who grew up in her father’s castle, Sansa. Trust me, for once…  _ please _ .” He stepped closer to her, placing two comforting hands on her shoulders. “Besides, you know that I am a terrible liar.  _ This _ is who I am.” He waved to himself. “I shouldn't try to be something I’m not, or I’m liable to fuck it all up.” 

 

She laughed at the vulgarity as she looked at him, a kind of exasperated fondness lining her face. “Aye, you’re right about that.” He lifted his eyebrows at her, still seeking her approval. She sighed and nodded in defeat. “Fine,” she conceded, “but this had better work, Jon.” 

 

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.” He stepped to the hearth, where Longclaw was hung above it, and plucked it from the hooks. 

 

“You’re going to a feast armed?” Sansa asked.

 

“This sword is the finest thing I own,” Jon replied, fastening the belt over his hips. “It couldn’t possibly hurt, right?”

 

Sansa shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.” 

 

“I think that’s the first time you’ve said that.” 

 

Sansa rolled her eyes, folding up the discarded doublet and placing it in a clothes chest. “Where’d you learn that little move, by the way?” 

 

“What?”

 

Sansa wove her fingers together, miming making a step with her hands. 

 

Jon felt a blush creep up his neck. “I saw Robb do it once,” he replied with a shrug. “Thought it was…” he faltered, not knowing the right word. 

 

Sansa’s face softened, her eyes a bit pained. “Robb was always a charmer.” She barked a laugh, shaking her head. “Perhaps you’re not as hopeless at this as I had assumed you would be.” 

 

Jon allowed himself a laugh, unable to deny that it had been one of his finer moments in his admittedly brief and mostly miserable history with women. “Such confidence in your brother.”

 

She said nothing to this, instead busying herself in front of the silverglass, adjusting (what seemed to Jon) her already immaculate hair. “It is interesting… Daenerys was queen of the horse lords. Is still considered their queen, from what I’ve heard.”

 

Jon hadn’t even considered that. No doubt, after her time among the Dothraki, Daenerys Targaryen might be the last person in the whole of the North who would require assistance with mounting a horse. He paused in lacing his boots, placing an elbow on his thigh. “What does that mean, you think?”

 

Sansa shrugged and Jon blew out a frustrated breath, continuing his progress on his boots. “What do you think of her?” he asked quietly after a beat of silence.

 

Sansa paused and turned to face him. “She is... shorter than I had expected.”

 

He laughed at that, running his fingers through his hair as he went to tie it up. “I’m sure the queen thought the same about me.”

 

“What did  _ you  _ think of her?”

 

He cleared his throat, a blush coming into his cheeks that he resented. “I thought the rumors of her beauty were just that-- rumors... flattery, exaggeration.” 

 

Sansa lifted her eyebrows, looking amused. “You like her, then.” 

 

“I can’t say for certain. I’ve only spent a few minutes in her company,” he protested as he stood with a wince. The boots were new, the leather still tough and creaky.

 

Sansa stepped toward him, pulling a stray thread from his gambeson. “So, you haven’t made a decision. Not that I can blame you, with how little we know about her, but you can’t hesitate too long, Jon, the queen will not--” 

 

“I never said that.” He sighed, throwing out a helpless hand. “What choice do I really have, Sansa?” he muttered. “How can I protect my people without her and everything she can provide? And how can I protect them if Daenerys Targaryen decides to take back the kingdom that once belonged to her father… as she is trying to do with all the rest of them?” He shook his head, letting out a breath of frustration. “This parley is for  _ her _ , not me. So she may take the measure of me and weigh whether or not all the things I cannot give her are worth her time.” There was a heavy silence and he let out a bitter laugh. “I am sure that she has a line of men a mile long that she could choose from.”

 

Sansa regarded him with an expression that could have been worry, or could have been sympathy, he couldn’t be sure. “I’m sorry, Jon. I’ve… I know what you’re going through. It’s terrifying.”

 

Jon felt the weight of anxiety in his belly lessen, the corners of his mouth twitch. “Aye, and now I feel like an ass. This could not be further from what you’ve had to endure.” 

 

Sansa shook her head, dismissing the thought. “In any case, if what you say is true, I’m sure this time tomorrow we will be drawing up a contract.” 

 

Jon couldn’t help but smile, cold and disbelieving. “A bastard without even a castle to offer her. A court of fickle lords and ladies... armies that have been run ragged by war after war. I am not so sure.”

 

His sister rolled her eyes so dramatically at his statement he thought for a moment she may just walk out of the room without another word. “You’re a  _ king _ , Jon. And many other things besides. And lest you forget,  _ she _ was the one who came to  _ you. _ If you go into this thinking like that, Daenerys Targaryen is liable to board her ship  _ tonight  _ and sail back to Dragonstone.”

 

He swallowed and nodded after a moment. “You’re right,” he said, ignoring her knowing smirk. “It’s just… it’s hard, sometimes… to remember somethings and forget others.” 

 

Sansa’s shoulders fell and she looked to her feet. “Aye,” she answered quietly. There was a protracted silence, before his sister sighed loudly. “You best leave. The queen is expecting you.” 

 

“She is?” Jon inquired, his heart kicking up into the base of his throat. “I thought we were meeting at the high table? The feast doesn’t start for over an hour.” 

 

“I might have… told the queen otherwise on the way here,” she replied with a small, mischievous smile. Jon stood, a bit dumbfounded, as he watched his sister turn to the little sideboard next to the door and handed him a decanter filled with wine so dark red it was nearly black. Sansa had obviously procured the beverage in question specifically for… whatever this was she had orchestrated. “What a better way to talk more candidly before a crowded and raucous supper tonight?”

 

He shook his head as he took the decanter from her, eyes bouncing from it to Sansa. “Is this… allowed?” 

 

Sansa shrugged. “Not in the strictest sense of courtly wooing, but… you’re a king. And Daenerys is a queen. Rules don’t apply to you like they do to the rest of us.” She pointed to the decanter. “That is a Dornish strongwine. I’ve heard it is one of the queen’s favorites, but be careful with it. It is not named ‘strongwine’ without reason.” 

 

He nodded, faintly amazed and not the least bit nervous. He coughed before stepping back from his sister and spreading his arms. “How do I look?”

 

Sansa looked at him flatly, one eyebrow raised. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

 

Jon let his arms fall with a sigh before striding to the door. “Wish me luck.”

 

Sansa shook her head, already turning back to her desk to take care of something or another. “Unnecessary,” he heard her mumble before closing the door behind him. 

 

+++ 

 

Fresh from her bath, Daenerys lounged before the great hearth, staring blankly at the stern-faced, trident-wielding stone mermen that supported the mantle. 

 

Missandei returned from giving instructions to the small group of handmaidens who would be serving Dany during her stay. She silently took a seat on the edge of the couch next to her, accepting the cup of wine Dany had poured for her friend in anticipation of what she suspected would be an… enlightening conversation. 

 

“So…” Missandei began, hiding her grin behind her glass. “The King in the North. Was he as you expected?”

 

Dany barked a laugh, taking a sip of her own wine. “That must be a joke.”

 

Missandei shrugged. “To be fair, you have not provided much detail of what exactly you  _ were _ expecting.” Dany shot her a flat look. “But yes, it was a joke, Your Grace.” Her friend allowed herself a satisfied smile. 

 

Dany let out a long, slow breath through her nose, staring into the fire once again. “I cannot make judgements right now. I’ve only been in his company for a few minutes.” 

 

Missandei rolled her eyes. “Yes, but, what do you think of  _ him _ , Your Grace? Is he… well, is he to your tastes?” 

 

Dany’s cheeks warmed and she fidgeted with her wine cup. “He is very…” she faltered, unable to find a word to properly describe the man she met today. ‘Handsome’ seemed too simple, ‘beautiful’ too… much. “I could do much worse.”

 

“So are you sure, then? That you will marry him?”

 

Dany bit her lip, the finality of the word ‘ _ marry _ ’ still unsettling to her. “I don’t have much of a choice, my friend,” she replied calmly, if not a bit defeated. “How else am I bring the North into the fold without more violence? How else am I to gain the trust of the people I aim to rule when I have been absent all my life? And besides… I have lost Dorne and Highgarden. Unless there is an eighth kingdom I am not aware of, Jon Snow is my best chance of correcting my wrongs.” She pulled her lips over her teeth, the memory of her losses still painful. 

 

“Then why the parley, Your Grace?” Missandei asked, brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why do all this if you are already certain that this is the best thing?” 

 

“The North is essential to my cause, my friend, and it is also fickle and temperamental,” Dany replied tiredly, taking another quaff of wine. “This way, the match seems more equivocal-- a condition I would desire even if not navigating the dogged distrust of the Northern people.” She sighed, placing her wine cup back down on the table. “This way, the King of the North may come to trust me, come to know me as someone different from my father that has wounded the North and his own family so deeply… and agree to the proposal in time.” 

 

Missandei lifted her glass, her face fond and proud. “I give it a day.” 

 

Dany smiled at her, her heart swelling. “You flatter me.”

 

“Never,” Missandei declared with a shake of her head as she placed her glass down and stood, going to find her grooming supplies, no doubt. “The king should be here soon… let’s make the decision easier on him, shall we?”

 

+++ 

 

Gods, she was beautiful. 

 

She stood in the doorway, framed by the rusty light of the evening, hair and skin aglow with it. She was resplendent in a white flowing silk gown that draped over her intriguing frame in the most flattering way. Her hair was looser than what he had initially witnessed when she had disembarked from her ship. She had been girded in angles and fur, hair tightly curled around her head like a crown, austere and distant, but lovely in her own way. A vision of regal allure. 

 

Now, she seemed… stripped down, soft. Almost  _ domestic. _

 

He swallowed.

 

“Your Grace,” she greeted with a curtsy, her gray-green eyes catching the light as they roved over, what was probably to her, his drab attire. “Would you like to come in?”

 

He cleared his throat, his mouth having gone a bit dry. “Aye, Your Grace,” he replied as he stepped into the little solar of her borrowed chamber. It smelled of almond and clove. She had just finished up her toilette, no doubt, and the thought made him redden. “I’ve brought us a bit of wine, if you’d like. I’ve been told that it’s one of your favorites.” 

 

Her eyebrows rose to almost her hairline as he handed the decanter over. She unstoppered it and gave it a good sniff. Her eyes closed in pleasure. “And here I thought I would have to endure Northern ale for the duration of my visit.”

 

She gave him a smile as she set about gathering glasses and he laughed. He’d have to remember to thank Sansa for her cleverness. “I am glad you like it, Your Grace.” 

 

She went to pour him a cup and he held out a hand to stall her. She blinked at him curiously. “Are you abstaining, Your Grace?” 

 

“Jon,” he said, almost against his will. He had grown tired of the ‘your grace’s almost as soon as he had met her on the pier... wanted to hear his name shaped in her voice. “You’re free to call me Jon, if you wish.”

 

Her lips twitched. “Are you abstaining, Jon?”

 

Oh, yes, he liked the way his name sounded coming from her. He suppressed a satisfied grin. “I do not want to deprive you of your wine, Your Grace, seeing as though it is a rare thing in the North.”

 

“Daenerys,” she chimed, pouring him a glass anyway. “And such a rare wine deserves to be shared. Come, drink with me.”

 

He relented, taking a seat on the couch while she settled on the chair next to it. “Should we toast?” he asked without really thinking about it. 

 

“And what should we toast to, Jon Snow?” 

 

_ Fuck _ , his full name sounded even better. He cleared his throat again, painfully aware of what the most likely thing to toast to would be, and it hung between them like a spider on a thread of silk. “Ah, to… the gods,” he offered lamely. 

 

Daenerys looked at him blankly, blinking in faint confusion. “Are you a godly man, Jon?”

 

Jon barked a laugh, shifting in his seat. “No, Your Grace--”

 

“Daenerys,” she corrected briskly.  “And that’s a relief, for I am not a particularly godly woman.”

 

Jon smiled, feeling his courage quicken. “Well, then…” he raised his glass and she leaned forward to clink her own against it. “To hell with them.”

 

Her eyes widened and she  _ laughed _ , loud and bright, before quieting it against the lip of her glass as she took a sip. The sound of it did something rather queer in his brain. He instantly needed more of it. He distracted himself by taking a sip of his own drink and sputtered. 

 

“Unused to strongwine, I assume?”

 

“Aye,” he croaked, wincing. “It is deceptively sweet. I thought I could handle it.”

 

“Yes, it is as sweet as honey on the tongue and burns like fire going down.” She took a large quaff, closing her eyes again in delight. He really wished she wouldn’t. The sight was doing odd things to him. “It’s really a most pleasant sensation once you get used to it.”

 

Jon had to look away, because there was something decidedly wicked sparking in her eyes as she said this. “How do you find your rooms?” he asked, desperate to change the subject. 

 

“After an hour in the Northern winds and three weeks aboard that accursed ship, it could have been a cellar... so long it had a hearth and a feather bed. I would have been satisfied with it.” 

 

He snorted. “I haven't seen many cellars with hearths and feather beds.” She chuckled at his joke and he warmed. “Aye, but the North does take some getting used to,” he continued more seriously as he took another, more measured sip of wine. He had to admit, it was quite pleasing if you didn’t swig it down like a green boy with his first drink. It was doubly so, now that it seemed to be quieting his nerves. “Besides it being cold, what do you think of it?”

 

The queen looked into her cup, hesitating. “I am not sure yet. I would very much like to see more of it. Meet more of its people.” She raised her eyes, regarding him in a pointed, purposeful sort of way. “If I am to rule it.”

 

He did not know what to think of that-- it could have been a threat and an invitation all at once. Rule by force, or by marriage. 

 

He took another swig of his wine, feeling the warmth of it seep into his very fingertips. “A ruler should know the people they are ruling over, it is true, but so many do not take the time or care to do so.”

 

“I aim to be the different sort, Jon Snow,” she said softly. He looked over at her, struck by her words and by…  _ her _ . “And from what I’ve heard of you, so do you.”

 

He twitched his shoulders, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “Aye… I try, for what it’s worth.”

 

“Trying is all a ruler can do,” she murmured, her face growing pained, troubled. He did not need to ask what was behind that anguish-- he knew it well himself. “We want to help people-- and we can only do it from a position of strength. And sometimes… strength is terrible.”

 

He felt rooted to the spot, his lungs and heart and all the rest locked up. Finally, he managed a wry smile. “It’s interesting,” he began, looking into the fire for an instant, gathering his courage, “finally finding someone who... understands.”

 

Her eyes were still sad, but her mouth quirked in a smile. They were silent for a time, though not uncomfortably, both taking in the other. 

 

“I’ve been wondering,” Daenerys began, “how you came to be King in the North, when you were once Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?” 

 

Jon had been terribly afraid of this question, and had perhaps not properly prepared himself to answer it. The truth would sound absurd. But to  _ lie _ … that was no way begin a potential betrothal. 

 

To her credit, Daenerys’ face was carefully constructed as merely curious as she sipped her wine. 

 

“There was a mutiny,” he finally ventured. She remained silent, but he heard her sharp intake of breath. “I let Wildlings south of the Wall… an extremely unpopular decision, to say the least.” He sighed, the memory still as fresh and painful as if it had happened yesterday. “The Night’s Watch wasn’t formed to fight Wildlings, but… people still felt that I had betrayed my duty and the honor of my command and they decided to… dispose of me.” 

 

Daenerys was silent for a time, absorbing this harrowing recounting. “But, you survived.”

 

He smiled bitterly at that. “I suppose you could say that.”

 

She looked at him as if not quite sure what to do with him and he braced himself for the question he was sure to come next. “I don’t understand one thing, Jon,” she said after a moment. “Why would you allow Wildlings south of the Wall? Are they not the Night’s Watch’s enemy?”

 

He felt himself grow cold, having foolishly not considered the fact that she could ask a question even more difficult to answer than the one he had been expecting. He coughed, shifting and placing his cup down. “Because, if I did not, they would all die.” 

 

She said nothing, blinking at him expectantly. He sighed in defeat, supposing there was no delaying it. “Beyond the Wall, Your-- Daenerys, there is a force that cannot be reckoned with. I am not sure of its origin, or how it finds its power, but there exists a vast army of the undead. If I did not allow the Wildings south of the Wall, they would have all perished and added to their number.” 

 

The silence that met this declaration was substantial. Stretching and shifting until Jon could feel its considerable weight on his shoulders. “An army of dead men?” 

 

Jon nodded, not quite able to look her in the face. “And women, children… I assume animals, as well. Anything the Night King can recruit from the grave for his army.”

 

“The Night King?” She sounded truly vexed now. 

 

“Aye,” he replied, fairly miserable. He had anticipated a much lighter affair when he had knocked on her door not a half hour ago. “I’ve seen him… they are all under his sway.” 

 

“Forgive me, Your Grace...” Her switch to formalities stung him. “If I don’t rightly know how to react to this… information.” 

 

“It sounds like nonsense, I know,” he replied earnestly, “but it is the truth.”

 

She was silent for a long while and he could feel her eyes on him, but he kept his gaze diverted. 

 

She cleared her throat. “Why did you accept my offer, Jon Snow?” He felt his stomach bottom out at that and he swallowed hard against the knot in his throat. She shifted forward in her chair. “You will not insult me. You must know that I wrote to you in the first place because a marriage between us would be politically... astute. There is no need to pretend that it is anything more than that.” 

 

“You have armies,” he replied after a beat, trying not to feel a bit wounded. He met her eyes once more, braver than he felt. “You have dragons. And fire sets the dead to rest forever.” 

 

She leaned back into her chair. Despite her reassurances, she seemed deeply disappointed. He didn’t know how to take this, either. Had she been so satisfied with this match until this news? The thought thrilled and devastated him in equal measure. “You are aware that I am waging a war with Cersei Lannister for the throne?” 

 

“Aye,” he replied a bit harshly. “It is the wrong fight. The real war is here.”

 

“Cersei Lannister was responsible for much of the grief that has plagued your family,” Daenerys countered hotly. 

 

“And I would love nothing more than to see her cast down, but it  _ will not matter _ . Not if the Night King goes unchecked.” His voice had risen beyond his awareness and she sat scandalized in her chair, quietly seething. He sighed, sobering. “You’ll be ruling over a graveyard, Your Grace, if we don’t defeat the Night King.”

 

“I knew that my armies and dragons were a part of the appeal of a marriage pact, Your Grace. I did not realize that they were to be used at your leisure to fight your own wars.” 

 

“It is not  _ my _ war,” he cried, “it is  _ ours _ , whether we wed or not. If you want to rule the Seven Kingdoms, you have to protect the Seven Kingdoms. And, right now, Cersei is not the one that the realm needs protecting from.” 

 

She was silent again, and Jon felt himself wilt in defeat, her stony expression telling him everything he needed to know. He had killed this not-quite engagement before it could even properly begin. 

 

She stood abruptly, clicking the back of one of her rings against her goblet. “I must consult with my Hand, Your Grace,” she said stiffly, a cold, emphatic dismissal. “I will see you at supper.” 

 

He stood, weighing the risk of staying and fighting her more on it. Eventually, he decided against it, figuring that he had dug himself deep enough. He stood and bowed with a muttered “Your Grace” and strode from the room.

+++

_"No one knows what is coming_

__

__

or who will harvest what we have sown

or how I've been dulling and dumbing

_in the service of the heart alone"_

\-- "Easy" Joanna Newsom


	2. Blessed and Sustained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her exactly where Missandei had told him the queen would be. The woman had smiled broadly at him when he had asked after her, and Jon knew she was onto him.

_ “He is the one of the most honest men I know,”  _ Tyrion had insisted.  _ “And I don’t see why he would risk his life to save the Wildlings without cause… You walked into a pyre, my queen, and walked back out with three dragons at your breast. You must believe in  _ some _ magic, at the very least.” _

 

Tyrion’s counsel was what echoed in her mind as she watched Jon Snow cross the hall and climb the dias to take the empty seat next to her. Her eyes flickered to the crowd, where ladies tittered and whispered to one another as he passed. 

 

_ “I could do much worse,” _ she had told Missandei, but it was not as simple as all that anymore. 

 

Jon Snow the asset, now Jon Snow the conundrum. 

 

“Your Grace,” he said as he settled in his chair. They sat in the place of honor-- the middle of the high table, like a true king and queen. Manderly and his wife sat to her left, while the granddaughter, Wynafryd, was seated to Jon’s right. A detail that did not go unnoticed to Daenerys, much like the acid looks the woman would throw her way every now and then.

 

“Daenerys,” she corrected him again. Things were… different between them now. She had thought that she needed to charm and cajole him into her marriage bed, that he would be a difficult man and his trust hard won. But after his confession not an hour ago, it was becoming clear to her that she could have been something of a black-hearted troll and he would have still agreed to exchanging vows, if grudgingly.

 

She was not quite sure what to think of that. 

 

It made her both resentful, knowing that the reason for his initial cooperation was but for her armies and dragons, though she should not blame him for that. And, strangely enough,  _ endeared _ . She knew quite well what she would do for her own people, what she would sacrifice to protect them— the knowledge that Jon Snow seemed of a similar mind thrilled her. 

 

He was obviously nervous, most likely feeling guilty and wounded after their ill-fated audience. His shoulders fell a fraction in the wake of her unanticipated warmth. He looked to his plate and then back to her, a ghost of a smile on his lips, a bit shocked. “Is it back to proper names again?” 

 

Dany reached for her wine cup. “And why shouldn’t it be, Jon Snow?” 

 

That seemed to rock him and she allowed herself a tiny, triumphant smile as she sipped her wine. 

 

Tyrion had been sympathetic, knowing the nature of the conflict that tore at her heart. The desire for a smart match that would be best for not just her rule, but for her realm— the solution sat not a few feet away from her, but with a very dread and fantastical purpose that was counter to everything she knew and yearned for. 

 

It certainly didn’t help that she had come to  _ like _ him, the vexing, handsome rebel king. 

 

_ “I am afraid that I cannot counsel matters of the heart— I can only say that this man, whether potential husband or no, is still one of your subjects, and if you mean to be a different type of queen, Your Grace, you should give him the benefit of the doubt.”  _ Tyrion had smiled sadly at her. “ _ I am no more fond of abandoning the quest for the throne, but sometimes we must readjust our priorities. Perhaps some evidence is due… it is quite a favor he asks from you, but nevertheless, I still think it a smart match, and... I believe you do as well.” _ He had grinned knowingly at her and she had rolled her eyes. 

 

The remainder of the evening kept her and the King in the North rather busy, as bannermen and others besides approached their seats at the table to pay their respects, as Jon Snow had not been king for very long, and many under his service had not yet reaffirmed their faith to their new king. 

 

They seemed rather uninterested in her— some lords or ladies openly glaring at her as their daughters curtsied shyly from behind them. She had been distantly aware that her proposal to a newly minted king in a realm suffering from a shortage of good men would be met with… disdain. She had not fully prepared herself for coming face to face with it, though, and it rattled her, if only a little.

 

That did not stop Jon from introducing her to every man and woman who came to greet him, whatever their attitude towards her. “This is my honored guest, Daenerys Targaryen,” he would say and the supplicant would bow or curtsy politely. 

 

She was touched, and she met all and sundry with as much grace as she could conjure in light of the relative coldness of her welcome. 

 

The line of boot lickers thinned, and they ate in a companionable quiet, enjoying brief snatches of small talk and pleasantries. Jon made a joke about the lamprey pie that she laughed appreciatively at. He seemed to revel in her laughter. An observation that she could not help but be hopelessly charmed by. 

 

The guests gathered before them were turning disorderly, thoroughly in their cups now. The little band in the corner gained a few dancers, and a knot of men with moose antlers on their jerkins broke into song. 

 

She idly wondered if this what their wedding night would be like, if such a thing came to pass. A taciturn, twitchy husband by her side and unruly, drunken Northmen shouting bawdy jokes. 

 

Daenerys couldn’t really begin to imagine, but she knew that at least  _ one _ detail would be different. 

 

Wynafryd, the unconsidered suitor of the handsome King of the North, became more and more bold with every cup of wine she greedily downed. 

 

The woman had been leaning into his space for almost the entirety of the meal, brushing a hand on his arm (and perhaps elsewhere, for earlier he had jumped so violently he nearly knocked his knee into the table), not caring one whit that Daenerys was there to witness it all or that Jon was shooting her reproachful looks and quietly entreating her to keep her hands to herself so as not to embarrass her.

 

Currently, the young woman was now tugging on his sleeve like a child. “Come dance with me, Your Grace,” she simpered.

 

Dany did not know quite what to think. On the one hand, she held no claim to Jon Snow and his affections, and she was the Mother of Dragons besides. What was Wynafryd Manderly to her? 

 

But there was another, meaner thing needling at her heart that alarmed her. 

 

Jon clearly had had enough, for he drew his lower lip over his teeth in a fearsome scowl before standing, throwing his kerchief on his barely touched custard. 

 

Wynafryd, being the clueless, besotted maid she was, almost squealed in glee, under the impression that the King of the North meant to accept her invitation. 

 

But he ignored his unwanted admirer, stepping angrily to Wyman Manderly’s chair on Daenerys’ other side, who had been prudently ignoring his granddaughter’s behavior. “I think it’s best that you escort your granddaughter back to her rooms, my lord, before she makes a fool of herself. She has had too much wine.” 

 

To his credit, Manderly looked chided, if not a bit ashamed, blushing under Jon’s accusing gaze. “Your Grace, she is a woman grown. She can drink as much wine as she likes.” 

 

Dany could almost feel the anger coming off of Jon’s form like the heat from a forge. He said nothing, his eyes flashing so dangerously even she had to suppress a shiver. 

 

Manderly quailed, nodding slowly before hefting himself to his feet to gather his drunken granddaughter. 

 

Jon stood for a moment, watching as Manderly escorted a loudly protesting Wynafryd from the hall. When they were gone, Jon turned his attention back to her. “Daenerys,” he said gruffly, and it made the hairs on her arms stand on end. “Would you care to dance?” 

 

She gaped a moment, taken aback. “I don’t know how… I was never trained.” 

 

His expression softened as he held out a hand. “That makes two of us.”

 

+++ 

 

If he hadn’t been a king and if she hadn’t had three dragons at her beck and call, people would have probably laughed themselves hoarse.

 

As it was, they laughed enough together for the rest of them. 

 

Both of them may of had just a smidge too much to drink themselves, the day being as stressful as it was. They giggled like children, bumping into other dancing couples or else tripping over each other’s feet. 

 

“What a fearsome pair we make, Jon Snow,” she said to him as they retreated to the sidelines, her cheeks rosy and her chest rising and falling in a most distracting manner. “A king and queen who cannot dance for shit.” 

 

He laughed loudly at her vulgarness, feeling his chest tighten painfully as she laughed in return and took a sip of water. If someone would have told him just a day ago that he would have the power to reduce the Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, to helpless giggles and swearing he would have called them mad. 

 

“Aye, but at least we possess the courage of a king and queen to embarrass ourselves thoroughly,” he declared as he lifted his own cup before him in tribute.

 

“And in full witness to our own subjects!” she declared as she tapped her cup on his own, laughing again and it was like a slug of rum, it was so intoxicating. She seemed not to notice what her choice of diction had wrought on him. ‘Our own subjects’ could simply reflect the strangely cohabiting and overlapping nature of both their royal jurisdictions at present. Or, it could have been a slip, a small betrayal of a possibility he had assumed he had slain a few hours ago over a cup of wine. 

 

He leaned his hips on one of the long tables behind them, the benches around them having grown more and more empty and so had been shoved incrementally aside as the dance floor grew larger. “I find it hard to believe that Daenerys Targaryen is a poor dancer.”

 

She gave him a withering look, though her smile betrayed her. “It has been my great shame for all my life.” She joined him at the table, hopping up onto it after he shoved aside some empty plates for her. She sat, water cup in her lap, feet swinging. 

 

Gods, the sight made him melt. And he realized that he might just be fucked. 

 

“I assume you know why I have not been trained in proper dancing,” she said after a pause in which they both amused themselves with watching the revelers dip and weave and spin on the dance floor before them. “A life on the run is not… conducive to dancing lessons.”

 

He hadn’t known that… not really, at any rate. He had known that she had lived most of her life as a fugitive, but he had not fully considered what that actually  _ meant _ . The splendid, fearsome woman next to him with dragons under her sway and thousands upon thousands at her whim… she had once been a girl with no family and no fortune. 

 

No  _ home _ . 

 

The thought dug into his heart like a thorn. He had to look away from her before he did something stupid. “I am a bastard, Your Grace—“

 

“Daenerys.”

 

He grinned. “ _ Daenerys _ … and bastards are not afforded dance lessons or any other manner of courtly education.”

 

“A bastard…” she repeated, and the word coming from her sounded queer… as if she were repeating a word from another language. “I think you mean a child who had no more control over the circumstances of their birth than we do over the sun.”

 

He had tried very hard not to think about how a woman of such repute would regard him, considering. He had assumed that she had overlooked his bastard name, no matter how grudgingly, because she simply did not have much of a choice. 

 

But her words shattered this frigid defense and he felt something hot and powerful blaze up behind his heart. 

 

“We punish the child for the foolishness of their parents. How mad,” she continued, more to herself than anything as she looked back to the crowd and took another drink. 

 

He had the most wild thought, the most reckless desire, to kiss her. Right then and there, perched on dirty banquet table surrounded by his drunken banner men. 

 

And why not? Sansa’s words from earlier echoed in his addled brain: “ _ rules do not apply the same to you as they do to the rest of us.” _

 

But he was saved (or perhaps thwarted) by a portly young man tripping drunkenly on his way back to the keg behind them, falling headlong into both of them, but mostly into Daenerys. 

 

He shoved the man perhaps a bit too forcefully, for he went sprawling upon the floor. “Your Grace!” the intruder cried, red faced with drink and embarrassment. “Your Grace, my apologies!”

 

“You should be apologizing to the queen,” Jon snarled, standing fully upright now as two men lifted the man from the floor by his arms. 

 

The man blinked dazedly, looking past him to where Daenerys was still sitting upon the table. “Your Grace, I’m sorry. I’m a clumsy oaf when sober.”

 

Daenerys smiled at him and shook her head. “It is no worry, my lord, but perhaps you should find your bed.”

 

The man looked as if he wanted to argue, but he glanced over at Jon, eyes dipping to his sword, and thought better of it. He bowed sloppily and the two men holding him up helped him shuffle out of the hall. 

 

Jon watched them go before he stepped closer to her, wanting to reach out, make sure she was unharmed with his own two hands, but he restrained himself. “Are you alright?”

 

He felt his breath catch in his throat as she looked up at him, placed a hand on his chest. It was a strangely possessive gesture that stirred something decidedly primal within him. “Care for a walk, Jon Snow?” 

 

Suddenly the crowded hall was much too cramped, the noise of drums and flutes and babbling party-goers a bit too much to bare. He nodded, releasing the breath he had been holding as he took up her hand. “Aye,” he rasped, and lead her out the door.

 

They found themselves outdoors, for whatever Gods forsaken reason. It was bloody freezing and Daenerys shuddered, only her silken dress to comfort her, but she had insisted. “I’ve never walked through proper snow before,” she had said breathlessly and he had been powerless to deny her. 

 

She crunched through the frost in her boots, lifting the hem of her skirts as she admired her foot prints-- tiny indentations in the shell of powder white-- seemingly hopelessly taken with the sensation. 

 

“Your Grace,” he warned as he watched her with a smile, “we should go inside. It is too cold.” 

 

“Daenerys,” she urged. “But it’s so beautiful out here,” she went on with a shake of her head. And it really was, a crisp layer of snow blanketing the little courtyard they stood in, the moon bright and blazing, transforming the white sheath into silver gilt. “And quiet,” she added. 

 

“Aye, I won’t argue that,” he returned, “but you’ll catch your death out here.”

 

“Perhaps you’re right,” she stuttered through chattering teeth. For some reason, it made him smile, her determination endearing. “We shall fetch our cloaks and return. I want you to teach me how to make a snow fort.”

 

He barked a laugh. “A snow fort?” She nodded and he shook his head. Was she aware of the glad havoc she was wrecking upon his poor, stupid heart? 

 

“A fine plan,” he said and she took up his arm as they walked back to the warmth of the castle, huddling close, soaking up his warmth. This time, he allowed himself to touch her unnecessarily, reasoning that she was very cold, and he pulled his arm from her embrace and wrapped it around her shivering shoulders. 

 

They came to the door of his chamber, being that is was closest, and a thought struck him that made his heart shudder and halt within his chest. He stopped before the door to his rooms and coughed, hesitating, inwardly panicking at what he was considering. 

 

Of course he had fully intended to present it to her at some point, he had just never anticipated that it might be this soon… after less than a day. But the idea took hold and refused to let go. 

 

Daenerys was looking at him, bewildered. “What’s wrong? Is this not your chamber?” she asked dryly. “Or did you leave your cloak in Wynafryd Manderly’s room?” 

 

He turned to look at her, affronted, only to see her eyes glinting with playfulness. She was  _ teasing _ him. 

 

That gave him the shot of courage he needed. He heaved a great breath and licked his lips. “There is another cloak, Your Grace--

 

“Daenerys…”

 

“ _ Your Grace _ ,” he pressed, trying to make her see the gravity of his offer. “Another cloak that is meant for you... if you will have it.”

 

She seemed suddenly made of stone, the full implication of what he was telling her settling in. 

 

They had not known each other for longer than a day. Had not broached the subject of their tenuous engagement after he had doused what little good will they had built between them with his grand declaration of undead armies and Night Kings. 

 

Instead, they had had…  _ fun _ . And he couldn’t recall another night in his life where he had felt so much joy. 

 

And those kinds of nights, too rare to begin with, were becoming ever more precious with what drew closer and closer on the horizon. 

 

And he found himself selfishly yearning not just for her dragons and her armies-- though those things were still realities that he could not deny-- but for  _ her _ … to be here with him, to make the dark days ahead more bearable. 

 

He would have felt terrible, greedy, for wanting to drag her into such hell, if he didn’t want it so fiercely. 

 

Slowly, she stepped forward, looking up at him gravely. He felt his heart dash itself against his rib cage, already cursing himself for his foolishness. She was going to reject him, tell him that she could not throw away her great purpose on the words of some petty, rebel king, that he was a fool-- “I cannot give you a child.”

 

It was his turn to seize up and she stepped away from him after a moment, taking his hesitation as rebuke rather than the utter shock it was. 

 

“The witch that killed my husband… she cursed my womb.” She looked up at him and though her words were steady and clear, her face betrayed the great grief within. “I had a lover in Mereen and no child came of it.” 

 

“Your Grace--”

 

“You were honest with me, Jon, from the start, and yet I have not been forthright with you on this matter. A marriage is above all expected to produce an heir, and that is one thing I cannot do for you.”

 

She was telling him this as a warning. A life-line. Flee now before binding yourself to a woman who cannot bear you sons. As if that was all she was worth. As if that was all she could possibly  _ do _ . 

 

She was blinking rapidly and Jon felt such panic he didn’t know what to do. What should he  _ say _ ? How could he explain his thoughts without sounding mad? That even despite the fact that he had never dreamt that he would ever marry-- much less to a woman like  _ her _ \-- or have a child, that he could not give one damn? Even if it was true, that a witch had somehow cursed her womb, how could that possibly sway him to put her aside? 

 

The magnitude of these feelings closed him up, and she swiftly unravelled in the wake of his inaction. “Good night, Your Grace,” she muttered hastily before marching away down the hall. 

 

_ Fuck.  _ What had he done?

 

+++ 

 

She awoke the next morning with her eyes swollen and sticky, her head throbbing dully from her over indulgence the night before. 

 

She groaned in misery, throwing her arm over her eyes, wondering if she should even bother going to breakfast, or if she should simply dress and depart directly to her ship. The thought of seeing Jon Snow again made her stomach turn and her eyes burn. 

 

Gods, she had been so happy such a brief time last night. Tripping over her own feet as he caught her in his arms, laughing at every wrong step and turn. Exchanging very unseemly jokes and jibes. Watching as his eyes lit up with something she dared not name, watching as he sent a man gasping to the floor for daring to touch her— accidental or no. 

 

She had felt like a girl… a girl she had never truly been before in her life, and she could only greedily wish for more of it. Could only hope like the fool she was that the man beside her could be the one to give it to her. 

 

Something had locked into place in those few short hours. Something that was all too painful to pry free from her heart.

 

She should have known better. For every expectation Jon Snow had turned on its head, he was still a man. And all men wanted sons. 

 

She had fully intended to never tell him. She had decided long ago that any political marriage she would make after Drogo, she would leave this particular detail about herself out. A loveless union, built upon nothing more than power and posturing, did not call for complete discretion. What did she care if some dolt she married would not get the sons he so desired from her?

 

But a knife of guilt had twisted in her belly, watching him regard her as if she were some rare, precious stone he had been searching for for an age. 

 

He didn’t deserve that. Did not deserve to marry a barren woman under falsehood, no matter the advantages to such a union, and the implications of her guilt shook her to her very core. 

 

She sighed mightily, feeling the heavy clot of emotion form in her throat again, threatening to spill over. 

 

She sat bolt upright at a soft knock on her door, terrified for an instant that it might be Jon, come to tell her that he was sorry, that him and his company would be riding out within the hour and he wished her good fortune, like the perfect gentleman he was.  

 

“Morning, Your Grace,” Missandei greeted with a grunt. Dany watched as her friend struggled through the door, balancing a breakfast tray on top of a very large, and very lumpy parcel. 

 

“Morning, Missandei,” Dany returned, her previous anguish forgotten for the time being. “What in the hells is that?” she asked, indicating the parcel. 

 

“I’m not sure,” Missandei answered as she lowered said package onto her desk. “I was hoping you’d enlighten me, Your Grace, as it was outside your door when I arrived.” 

 

She felt something queer grip her heart-- a painful,  foolish hope and an abject fear. She snatched up her robe from the end of the bed and threw it over her shoulders, striding quickly to the desk as Missandei began to prepare her breakfast for her on the table beside the fire. 

 

There was a note tucked under the rough twine that secured its canvas wrapping. She plucked it from its binding and unfolded it between two fingers. 

 

_ I don’t believe in curses, but it hardly matters anyway. _

 

With shaking hands, she unknotted the twine and the canvas fell away and she pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling her odd, choking laugh. 

 

A cloak as white as a winter storm, the mantle as supple and luxurious as she could ever imagine, the fastenings stamped with the Targaryen dragon, and the Stark Direwolf.

 

“Your Grace,” came Missandei’s breathless exclamation from behind her. Daenerys stood, helpless and dazed, brushing tear-damp fingers over the fine fur. “Is that--?”

 

She gasped, some strange, joyous sound escaping her though tears flowed freely. “Yes, my friend, it is.”

 

+++ 

 

He found her exactly where Missandei had told him the queen would be. The woman had smiled broadly at him when he had asked after her, and Jon knew she was onto him. 

 

Daenerys was perched on a cliff beside the ocean, south of the city. She had ridden out on her new horse, as he could see the little mare hobbled and grazing down the slope, pushing her nose through the snow. 

 

Did she come up here  _ alone _ ? 

 

He did not want to assume the worst from his own bannermen, but a Targaryen in the North was not a safe state to be in. He knew she must have been brave, not reckless. 

 

_ You have no right or reason to chide her for it _ , he reminded himself as he brought his horse to a halt beside her own some ways from where she was standing, taking in the line of the winter sea, the seams of gold shot through the gray cloud. 

 

His horse reared up beneath him as a mighty screech rent the air and an enormous shadow sailed over them. He calmed his mount best he could, wheeling him about to see the source of such a clamor. 

 

Three winged beasts he never dreamt he would ever see carved their magnificent silhouettes against the early morning sky and came to a rumbling landing at the edge of the cliff. They gathered around with bent, eager heads to the pale, diminutive form of Daenerys Targaryen. 

 

It was most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. 

 

He was rooted to the spot, finding his lungs seized up within him. He was both entranced and terrified-- to approach the fearsome guard of the queen would be a death wish. 

 

He watched as one of the beasts— the largest one, with scales as black as ink-- lifted his thorny head and looked at him. 

 

He felt… weakened and stronger all at once. A bone-deep hum capturing every muscle and tendon answering the dragon’s gaze. The queen turned to see what had drawn the interest of her son. He could not see her face from here, but the weight of her focus added to that of a dragon was almost too much to bare. 

 

He staggered from his horse, trying to bring his heart to heel. He strode up the slope, the sun glinting off the gray ocean, snow crunching under his boots, drawn on by some need he could not understand.

 

The beast thundered toward him, rankled and rumbling in warning. Jon stopped short, heart in his throat. The dragon slowed, bathing Jon in his heated, infernal breath as he roared. 

 

Jon stood, holding his ground, not sure what else he could do. To run from a dragon would be foolish, he thought. The creature brought his great head closer so he could get a good look at him, blinked at him as if Jon were an interesting stone he had spotted from above. 

 

Dragon’s eyes— glowing like embers, and oddly  _ knowing _ , taking the measure of him in one swift sweep. Jon could scarcely believe it. The beast knelt before him in the snow, teeth bristling and deadly, scales steaming in the frigid air like a new forged metal. 

 

He moved without thinking, yanking his glove off to feel that mystic heat for himself, to ensure the reality of the sight before him. 

 

The touch warmed him good as a brazier and the beast turned away with a rumble. 

 

Daenerys had witnessed the whole bizarre exchange, and Jon quickly gathered himself so as to not look like a fool. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he somehow managed, pulling his glove back on. 

 

“Daenerys,” she reminded him yet again. She wore an unreadable expression that sent Jon’s nerves jangling. “That was an extraordinarily brave thing to do.”

 

He looked to the ground, then back up, watching as the other two, overcome with curiosity, inched closer. “Aye, or perhaps just stupid.” 

 

She flashed him a smile, before turning to her children. “That one who just scared the life out of you was Drogon,” she said with a little wry twist of her mouth. It was so endearing he couldn’t possibly find it within himself to defend his courage. “And these two are Rhaegal and Viserion.” She reached out a dainty, gloved hand and stroked Rhaegal moss-colored scales as if he were no more than a cat. 

 

He did not know his Targaryen history well, but the two names were definitely familiar. “You named them for your brothers.” 

 

She nodded, her face growing pained. “You lost two brothers as well.” 

 

He couldn’t really form words, something in her tone striking him good as a blow. 

 

She seemed to know what his silence carried within it. “We have both lost so much. As have many of our people.” 

 

“Aye, Your Grace,” he replied roughly, his voice tangled up. 

 

She laughed, a bit sad, a bit cold. She walked closer to him. “How many times must I tell you? I have a name, and I would like you to use it, Jon Snow.” 

 

He cleared his throat, her words and her tone and her proximity and everything else about her making him flightier than a colt. She reached for his hand and brought him closer to Rhaegal, placing the palm she held upon his warm snout. The dragon…  _ purred _ . 

 

“They like you,” she observed. 

 

He swallowed, before offering her a watery smile. “I suppose you’d know if they didn’t.” 

 

Her lips twitched and she folded her hands in front of her. They were silent for a time. Jon watched as the dragons trundled off and Daenerys kept her eyes to the sea. 

 

“I’m sorry for last night,” he blurted, the silence weakening him. “For everything. For Wynafryd being a fool. For my drunk bannermen being fools. For the lamprey pie.” She laughed at that, loud and bright and he smiled, feeling braver. He stepped closer to her. “And I apologize… for being a fool myself.” 

 

“Nothing you did last night could be considered foolish,” she countered, her voice soft, cool like rain. 

 

“I disagree.” He sighed, shook his head. “Yesterday was one of the strangest days of my life, Daenerys, and I’m sorry that I just… did nothing. That I let you hurt like you did. I’m a bloody coward when I want to be.” 

 

She looked down, pulling her lips over her teeth, as if warring with herself. “I do not take you for a coward, Jon Snow, so there must have been something else that stalled you.”

 

“Do you think me false?” he asked, trying not to sound as stung as he felt.

 

“I want to say ‘no’, Jon, but I can’t. I have only known you a day.”

 

He was silent at that, both slightly offended and strangely understanding. 

 

She sighed, her shoulders falling, her face pulled taught under a weight of dread. “Why did you give me that cloak?”

 

“It felt like the right thing to do,” he answered without hesitation. 

 

She licked her lips, appearing to him to be locked in some inner battle he could not understand. “In what way?”

 

Jon looked at her in question, something in her manner and tone telling him that there was something she was seeking from him he was unsure he was able to give her. “Daenerys—“

 

“We met with designs to broker a marriage pact,” she cut across him, overly loud, her control tenuous. “The assumed conditions of that pact have been altered to such an extent that said arrangement would be thought of as untenable… under normal circumstances”

 

Her words were clinical, piercing him clean and precise as a maester’s knife. “For you or for me?” he asked after a heavy pause.

 

“For us both.”

 

He swallowed, nodding in a bleak understanding. “I think I have made my thoughts on what you deem to be a defect very clear.” He was trying to match her royal diction as best he could, digging into parts of his boyhood training he had thought long forgotten. 

 

He looked at her, wind-swept and wild-haired on the sunlit slope. A siren, a vision shimmering from the ether of some shipwrecked madness. “As to your reservations… I do not blame you, but I can only assure you, again, that your misgivings about the peril that awaits us all are… unjust.”

 

She stepped closer and Jon could feel her heat, the dragon’s blood simmering like broth under her skin. “I cannot accept that cloak unless I know… that you meant to give it to me for the only other reason a man would give a woman such a gift.”

 

Jon felt his heart seize up at that, all the implications buried within her words ricocheting noisily in his mind. He gathered the last of his courage with a breath. “It was not pity, if that was what you fear. As I’ve said, I do not view lack of sons or daughters a defect.” He looked down to his boots, feeling the words that were so cumbersome within him work their way through him like shifting shrapnel. “I cannot deny that the aid of your considerable resources is still among my desires, but it is not the only reason. It is one of many.”

 

She was still as stone before him, something incredulous forming in her eyes. He did not know if she was shocked at his candidness, or if she simply did not believe him. He wished nothing more than to step forward and grab her up, smooth away those lines of disbelief with his mouth, with his hands. The thought, the sudden, blazing image stirred him into stillness. 

 

“Daenerys, I am sorry if I overstepped,” he continued, her silence and inaction driving him mad. “But I have come to admire you. I feel that perhaps you have come to admire me as well.” He laughed bitterly. “Though I cannot possibly say what I’ve done to earn the affection of a woman like you… you had every right to draw away after we spoke yesterday, after… as you yourself said… the terms of our union were so deeply altered. You had every right to leave with the dawn.” He watched her, trying to wrangle something…  _ anything _ from her, but it was like divining the future from a face of stone. 

 

“Perhaps you were simply bored, and this is all folly,” he continued, his breath coming in faster now, “but this is how I feel. And now, be frank, Your Grace, because I don’t know if I can tolerate your silence any longer.”

 

“Are we fools, Jon Snow?” she asked quietly. “For allowing this to happen? For forging ahead with…  _ this _ because of day-old affections?” 

 

A confirmation lay within her words, and he could not help but relish it, though it resided within a thicket of barbs and spines. “It does sound foolish, aye, but even fools are wise from time to time.”

 

She managed a wan smile, her eyes softening. 

 

They stood before each other, man and woman, king and queen, not knowing where to tread, what to do with the other. 

 

There came the sound of hoofbeats over the snow, and Jon felt a jolt of fear that had him stepping in front of Daenerys, hand on the hilt of his sword. Through the spray of slush and ice, Jon could clearly see the red banner of his sister’s hair and he relaxed, though but little. For Sansa to ride so hard to meet him here did not bode well. 

 

He started forward, meeting his sister halfway as she pulled up in front of him, cheeks red and hair wild, her horse snorting with exertion. “Jon,” she said simply, a bit breathless, handing him a scroll.

 

He read it twice before he looked back to Sansa. “Arya is alive?” 

 

“So it may seem.” Her eyes tracked to over his shoulder and he glanced behind him. Daenerys was walking slowly towards them, curiosity getting the better of her. 

 

“And Bran?” he exclaimed, a bit breathless himself. “He has seen…”

 

Sansa nodded, wheeling her horse around. “We have to leave.”

 

Jon felt his heart sink straight through his belly and turned back to Daenerys, who was looking between him and Sansa in quiet alarm. “My sister is right, Your Grace, I must leave. Two siblings I thought long dead have returned to Winterfell and my brother sends dread warnings about the army of the dead.”

 

She looked as if she wanted to argue, to stamp her foot in the snow and hold her ground, but she swallowed with some difficulty and nodded. “Of course.” The words were tight. Brittle. 

 

He stepped closer to her and he could hear Sansa moving her horse slowly back down the hill, discreetly giving them some semblance of privacy. He dared to gather Daenerys’ hand in his own, wanting the words to stick. “The cloak is yours to do with what you wish, Daenerys. Winterfell will welcome you, if you would wish it.”

 

For a few, thrilling moments, they were trapped within their own realm, built by those foolish longings growing like saplings within them both. But it could only last so long in the cruelty in which they resided. She blinked away whatever was threatening to overwhelm her, backed away from him a step, her hand falling from his. He felt as worn and ragged as old sailcloth at the rebuke, but he could not think about it now. 

 

She straightened, tilted her chin, looking every inch the queen she was. “I will see that the gifts I have brought will depart with you.”

 

“Gifts?” 

 

“I’ll see that a full accounting is delivered to you,” she replied simply, folding her hands before her. 

 

He wanted to protest, to insist she keep said gifts if this… whatever  _ this _ was was to be stalled for an unknowable amount of time, or else was dead upon arrival. 

 

But some fool of a hope stopped him and he went to his horse, looking back at her, standing like a lone sentinel within the sedge and snow. “I wish you good fortune, Your Grace.”

 

“And you, Jon Snow.”

 

+++ 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She could watch the company of the King in the North gathering in the courtyard from the frosted window in her little solar. Men and horses and banners the colors of the earth— lichen, moss and stone, all milling about in a jumble, the exit from the city unplanned and hasty. 

 

Among the chaos she could see Jon, head bent close to his bannerman Wyman Manderly. The lord of White Harbor was to muster his own forces and make the march to Winterfell within a day. 

 

Daenerys’ own retreat was more sedate. She had fewer men to muster and had hardly been able to unpack besides. She could distantly see her ship moored in the bay down the hill. There, a small crew was loading wayns and yoking mules and horses loaded down with the gifts that were meant to curry favor with not just the North, but her prospective husband. 

 

Missandei fluttered about the room silently as she tucked away this and that into bags and chests, quieted and discomfited under her queen’s reticence on the matter. 

 

There came a knock at the door and Dany couldn’t help but startle, her mind having been very far away. 

 

Missandei paused and gave her a pointed look before going to open the door. 

 

“Ser Davos,” Missandei declared in surprise. “What may we do for you?”

 

The man looked flustered, but only slightly. He gave a shallow bow. “My lady,” he greeted, “I was wondering if I could perhaps have a word with the queen?”

 

Missandei shot her a questioning look and Dany nodded, trying not to show her confusion and careful hope on her face. Missandei nodded back and opened the door wider, allowing the Hand of the King to step into the room, hands folded behind his back and fidgeting. Missandei left the room without being asked. 

 

“My lord,” Daenerys began, stepping away from the frigid window, “has the king sent you?”

 

“No, Your Grace, he hasn’t.”

 

Dany swallowed down her shock. “Then what may I do for you, ser?”

 

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” The old man rocked once onto the balls of his feet. “but I’ve come to ask you to reconsider.”

 

“Reconsider?” 

 

“Aye,” he answered. “You’re turning your back on a good man and on an even better cause, Your Grace.”

 

Daenerys blinked at him, raising her eyebrows. “I do not intend to turn my back on anyone, my lord.”

 

“What do you call this?” Davos asked, waving a hand to the window. “You should be down there, suiting up with the rest of them.”

 

She couldn't help but feel her hackles rise. “It would do you well to not tell monarchs you do not serve as to what they should and should not do.”

 

Davos sighed at that, stepping a bit closer to her with his head bowed. “Apologies, Your Grace, subtlety has never been my strong suit, but sometimes my emotions get the better of me.” He looked at her, eyes softening, some of the righteousness leaving his posture. “Allow me to start over, Your Grace?”

 

Her first instinct was to dismiss him, but she thought better on it… for reasons she could not name now. “Continue, my lord.”

 

“I only speak so passionately, Your Grace, because I believe in Jon Snow. He is the one who can save all our sorry hides, but not without help.”

 

“I’m at war, ser, I cannot turn my forces north without first scrubbing the kingdoms of the blight that is Cersei Lannister’s rule.” She paused, letting the words and the truth within them to sink in. “A marriage to your king comes with a condition I cannot honor. Jon Snow told me as much yesterday.”

 

Davos ran his tongue over his lower lip, considering his words carefully. “I will not deny that the world would be better off without Cersei in it, Your Grace, but it is not the fight to have right now.” He took a great breath, as if about to run headlong into a pit of serpents. “Jon Snow has fought what awaits us all— Lannister or Targaryen or whatever else will not be spared— and he needs your help.”

 

“As I’ve said, my lord, your king has already made this quite clear to me.”

 

The man huffed before sobering. Something like sudden understanding flared in his gray eyes. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you, Your Grace. I believe that one of your many titles is the Breaker of Chains?”

 

She paused, unsure of where this line was leading. “Yes.”

 

“You freed the Slave Cities. Cities that have known the torment of slave labor for millennia.” He fell silent, looking out the window. For a moment her chamber was filled with nothing but the distant sounds of men shouting and horses wickering. “Tell me, Your Grace, what is worse than a bondage that not even death can break?”

 

The question seemed to strike her like an arrow. She could not possibly answer. 

 

“I understand that you feel you have other duties and other wars to fight, Your Grace… and I can only pray that we can all live to see those wars won, but it won’t matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne.” He shifted on his feet, cleared his throat. “I only ask you to at least think on it, Your Grace. Come to Winterfell and see for yourself, if you must.”

 

She peered at him, understanding something that perhaps even he did not. “You are worried for your king.”

 

“Aye, Your Grace, I am. And I worry for all his people. All  _ your _ people.” He licked his lips, shook his head, some of his previous ire returning. “A marriage for political gain, aye, but what about a union for the greater good? Or even for something else?” He blinked at that, as if he had said too much. He went on anyway, his shoulders tense. “Even if you harbor no affection for my king, rest assured that he does for you, and that is as mighty a gift that you can ask for in this wretched world.”

 

“I do,” Daenerys found herself saying, her voice a small and fragile thing. Davos tilted his head in question. “Harbor affection, as you say,” she managed to clarify, blushing only a little. 

 

“Then, pardon Your Grace, what in the bloody hells is stopping you?”

 

+++ 

 

_ “I am easy _ __  
_ Easy to keep _ __  
_ Honey, you please me _ __  
_ Even in your sleep _ __  
_ But my arms want to carry _ __  
_ My heart wants to hold _ _  
_ __ Tell me your worries 

_ I want to be told” _

\-- “Easy” Joanna Newsom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAM!!!!! less than 24 hours later! the response i got for part one was just about mind blowing.
> 
> third part friday hopefully. if not, then monday or tuesday. 
> 
> thanks to justwanderingneverlost again for that lovely mood board. my goodness. 
> 
> let me know what y'all think! it sustains me!


	3. Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were silent for a time, simply basking in the other’s long-missed presence as they tucked into their porridge. 
> 
> “I have to say, Jon, I’m disappointed,” Arya began thickly, mouth full. 
> 
> “Oh?”
> 
> She swallowed. “I really wanted to see a dragon.”

“Eight thousand bushels of wheat, five thousand of barley and rye. Three hundred barrels of wine, a cask of Tyroshi pear brandy, a chest of silk and team of horses and wayns to haul it all.”

 

Sansa had let the hand holding the parchment fall to her side in astonishment, shaking her head as she watched the progress of said transport unfold of front of them from the gangway. “Are you  _ sure _ you’re not getting married?”

 

He hadn’t been able to answer, only to look upon the bounty they had been blessed with for seemingly nothing at all. 

 

The journey to Winterfell had been slower than their journey to White Harbor, dogged by wind and snows, and other, more cumbersome things Jon had not the mind to think of now. 

 

Jon’s reunion with Arya had been fierce and tearful. He had not dared to believe that his precious little sister was still alive. Alive and within the walls of their home once again. The reality of it was almost too much to bear.

 

The reunion with his brother had been quite another affair altogether— queer, sedate, and Bran had retreated back into his study shortly after, requesting solitude. 

 

It had been three days. Three days since he had left the city of White Harbor at his back, since he had watched her dragons wheel and turn through the clouds until they were out of sight. But he was home now, with many things to think on. A war to prepare for with but little to do it with. A dread mission to complete in just a few days’ time. 

 

He could not help but feel like a failure. He had failed to broker the marriage pact that would ensure the safety of his people, had failed the deeper yearnings of his own foolish heart. 

 

“I thought that you would be bringing home the Dragon Queen.” Arya smirked at him from over her ale in the Hall, just hours after his return. 

 

He smiled, the expression feeling odd on his face. “Aye,” he answered, “I’m afraid I am not fortunate with women.”

 

Arya snorted. “I’m somehow not surprised.”

 

He chuckled, the ache in his heart assuaged by the fact that he was able to be teased by his long lost sister at all. 

 

“Where is Sansa?” Arya asked, craning her neck.

 

“Overseeing the storage of the supplies Daenerys saw fit to send with us.”

 

Arya’s eyebrows shot up. “Daenerys, is it?”

 

His shoulders twitched. He nodded to the slender sword at her hip, changing the subject. “You still have it, I see.”

 

Arya looked down at it, her face growing fond. “I almost lost it. Twice.” She looked back to him, eyes hard as steel. “But I got it back.”

 

He smiled at her, proud beyond reckoning. “Twice.”

 

She nodded with a little, wicked grin that was so familiar he nearly laughed from joy. “Aye.”

 

“I am so bloody happy to see you,” he blurted, breathless, his eyes heated. 

 

She smiled at him, twisted with a distant pain. “You have no idea, brother.”

 

They were silent for a time, simply basking in the other’s long-missed presence as they tucked into their porridge. 

 

“I have to say, Jon, I’m disappointed,” Arya began thickly, mouth full. 

 

“Oh?”

 

She swallowed. “I really wanted to see a dragon.”

 

He laughed, his heart feeling lighter than it had in an age. “I’m sorry to—“

 

He was cut off by a clamor coming from outside the hall’s doors. He shot to his feet, drawing his sword without a thought as men and women shuffled hurriedly through the doors, shouting in fear or calling out in wonder:  _ “Dragons!” _ The others gathered in the Hall, previously eating their breakfasts in a sleepy quiet, were scrambling from the benches to press their noses to the glass of the windows in curiosity. 

 

“ _ Jon!” _

 

Sansa’s shout pierced through the escalating racket as she pushed through the throng toward him and Arya. His little sister had also stood to attention, her own blade bare and glinting in the dusty morning sun. 

 

“Sansa—” Jon began, his heart thundering in his throat. 

 

“It’s  _ the queen,  _ Jon.”

 

Jon blinked dumbly, lowering his sword. “What about her?”

 

“She’s bloody  _ here _ .”

 

+++ 

 

Sansa Stark’s office was chilly, having not been in use for nearly two weeks. The woman in question stoked a fire in the hearth enthusiastically as her, Tyrion, Davos, Jon and, she assumed, Jon’s long-lost sister all settled and got as comfortable as they could. 

 

“My lady, the queen and I both thank you for welcoming us to your home,” Tyrion began magnanimously as Sansa took up her chair behind her desk. 

 

Sansa shot him a frigid look. “I didn’t have much of a choice. You and your queen descended on the back of the dragon if I remember correctly.”

 

Tyrion’s face twitched. “I believe that is an accurate recollection.”

 

Dany suppressed a smirk, recalling Tyrion’s ardent protestations when she had turned back from the pier in White Harbor that would take her back to her ship. His shortened legs ran in her wake while he shouted things like ‘reason’ and ‘thoughtfulness’ as she marched back to her horse and swung up into the saddle. She had finally looked at him as she gathered her reins.  _ “My lord Hand you have counselled me well on this matter, but you may either come with me, or wait for word from me at Dragonstone and worry yourself into an early grave.” _

 

Her Hand had cursed and clutched her furs fearfully for the duration of the long flight, but he was here and she was glad about that, at least. 

 

“First,” Tyrion went on briskly. “I must ask if you are able to house the remainder of the queen’s household as well as her armies.”

 

Sansa blinked at him. “You can’t be serious.”

 

Tyrion cocked his head. “I am not known for being solemn, my lady, but I’m afraid I’m perfectly serious.” 

 

Sansa sighed heavily. “How long do I have to prepare?”

 

“Three or four weeks, by my estimation,” Tyrion answered. 

 

The woman grew thoughtful, calculating in her head. “Again, I do not have much of a choice, but I will make do.”

 

Tyrion smiled, oddly fond. “Of course, my lady.”

 

“I apologize for straining you and your resources, Lady Stark,” Dany interjected. “I know that it must be a momentous task, but I will help in whatever way I can.”

 

Sansa nodded at her before folding her hands on the desk in front of her. “And I’ll accept whatever help gladly.” She nodded to Jon, sat next to Daenerys, tense and silent. “I assume this means a marriage contract needs to be negotiated, and a wedding needs to be planned.”

 

Daenerys felt her stomach turn and she sat more upright, chancing a glance at Jon. When she had arrived, stepping from the shoulder of Drogon just outside the castle walls (after helping Tyrion slide clumsily from his seat on the dragon’s back), he had looked as if he were seeing a ghost and had spoken nary three words to her since. “If the King on the North desires and we both agree to the terms set forth in whatever contract we may forge.”

 

Sansa looked questioningly at her brother at that. Jon shifted in his chair and glanced over Dany’s way. “Aye,” he answered hoarsely.

 

“Well then,” Sansa chirped as she pulled a sheaf of parchment from a drawer and readied her quill. 

 

“The first order of business,” Tyrion declared, shifting forward in his chair. “Is the matter of name.”

 

Dany watched as Jon’s shoulders shifted and Sansa looked at her Hand flatly. 

 

“Jon is a Stark.” The voice who said the words was new, and Jon’s other sister stepped from the shadows. She was small and dark, the sibling resemblance almost uncanny. She clutched the hilt of a slender blade at her hip.  _ Odd _ , Dany thought. It wasn't every day you saw a woman with a sword. 

 

“Maybe, my lady, but not in name,” Tyrion answered her from over his shoulder. He held out his hand toward where Jon was sitting. “My queen holds the power to legitimize—”

 

Dany pressed a staying hand to Tyrion’s shoulder, the subject— thoroughly discussed weeks ago with little ado— now making her feel queasy. Beside her, Jon was growing morose and irritable, his shoulders twitching. “I have little concern about the king’s name. Whenever we are wed he may choose to keep the name Snow, or I will grant him legitimacy so he may take up the name of his father.” She looked over at her new fiance, whose shoulders sagged in relief. “He may even take my name, if he so wishes.”

 

Sansa looked faintly astounded at this last proclamation. “You would have my brother take up the Targaryen name?” 

 

“Yes,” she replied levelly. “And why not?” She turned back to Jon, who wore much the same expression as his sister. “There are other options still— claiming one last name and the house of another. Either way, Jon Snow’s name was never a deterrent for me and is not something that requires…  _ fixing  _ now.” 

 

There was something like a smile hiding in Jon’s mouth, a light of gratitude kindling in his dark eyes. Tyrion sat in his chair, looking dumbfounded. 

 

Sansa nodded. “I suppose we can work that out later, seeing as it is of little concern right now.” 

 

Daenerys inclined her head and waited as Sansa made note of it before looking back up. “I assume,” she began, “that since you yourself have declared war on Cersei Lannister and are rightful heir to the throne by blood  _ and _ by conquest, gods willing, that my brother would act as king consort.” 

 

Dany threw a look to Tyrion who cleared his throat, pulling himself together. “If it is so the desire of the King in the North, my queen will not protest.” 

 

Sansa waited, blinking patiently as Jon leaned forward in his chair to get a better look at her Hand. “But?” Sansa asked. 

 

_ “But, _ ” Tyrion continued, “the queen has expressed her own desire to install him as king in his own right, to rule alongside her— as  _ equals _ —” he emphasized very clearly, “whenever she comes into her throne.”

 

The silence that met this declaration was palpable. Dany looked to her hands, folded in her lap, squeezing them together until her knuckles went white. 

 

Jon cleared his throat, shifting in his chair, his brow furrowed and the rest of his countenance unreadable. 

 

“Your Grace,” Sansa began a bit shakily, “are you— that is… enormously generous.” 

 

Dany managed to smile at her, wry. “You know well the stresses of command, as does your brother, Lady Stark. I would hardly call it generous.” 

 

Sansa shook her head, not to be dissuaded. “You would make my brother King of the Seven Kingdoms outright?” 

 

“To rule alongside me, yes.”

 

There was a gasp from behind her, she assumed from Jon’s other sister.

 

“Why?” Sansa asked, still locked in incredulity. 

 

Dany gave her a questioning look. “I admire you, Lady Stark, and am grateful to you for your help and wisdom, but I owe you no explanation.” 

 

That seemed to cow her, and for a moment the room was filled with the scratch of her quill and the crackle of the fire. 

 

After a moment of nearly intolerable silence, Jon shot from his chair, walking to the back of the room to pace. 

 

“Further,” Tyrion pressed as Dany tried with all her strength to not follow Jon— for what reason or what purpose she could not possibly say. “As Lady of Winterfell, the queen asks that you may serve as Wardeness of the North, Lady Stark.”

 

Dany watched as Sansa Stark tried very hard to keep her pleasure at this news hidden beneath a courtly mask. “Of course,” she answered, looking to Dany with a nod. “You honor me, Your Grace.”

 

Dany nodded back with a polite smile, her unease growing with each passing second as Sansa scribbled away and Jon skulked in the shadows at her back. 

 

“Is there anything else of note to be discussed?” Sansa asked, checking over her handiwork. “I can give this to Maester Wolkan and he can transcribe it to something more… official.”

 

“Ah,” Tyrion answered with a troubled expression, shifting forward in his chair.

 

Again, Dany stalled him. “I must speak with the king,” she told Sansa quietly, “alone.”

 

Sansa looked between the two of them, clearly conflicted, but after only a few beats stood from her chair. “Of course.” She nodded at all gathered. “We will adjourn for now.”

 

Dany gave her her thanks as the crowd filtered from the room— the smaller sister being last, lingering at the doorway with a dangerous glint in her eye. 

 

Then the door was closed and it was just her and Jon. 

 

The fire hissed and snapped, a blast of wind rattled the panes of the windows. Dany was exhausted, her skin wind-burnt and her coat still cloud-damp, but she gathered her courage and stood, moving toward him. 

 

“Jon,” she began.

 

He turned to look at her, and she was not sure what to do with the expression inhabiting his face. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she found herself saying, daring to come closer, needing to see him better. She had missed the sight, somehow. His dark eyes and full lips and scarred brow— they had become treasured trinkets she stowed away in her mind. “I should have… talked to you first. I see that now.”

 

He did not answer right away, his hands flexing and fidgety at his sides. “And why should you?” he asked roughly. “If this is merely a transaction, as you’ve said.”

 

She shook her head. “Don’t,” her voice was clipped, maybe too heated for her liking. “I think we can both admit that this is well past that now.”

 

He breathed out, shoulders sagging as he looked away. “I’m sorry,” he relented, shaking his head. “I suppose… I’ve never considered—” he stopped short, wincing. 

 

“What?” There was something strange in his tone, in his behavior, and it was gnawing a hole in her belly. 

 

“I’ve never considered… what happens… after.” He met her eyes again, something sad and haunted within his own. “I’ve never intended to live out this war.”

 

He might as well have reached out and slapped her across the cheek. Her voice fled from her like a bird flushed from the reeds. 

 

“For years, Daenerys, I’ve known that this fight was coming, and that I was going to be there to meet it head on. And for years I have believed that to be my purpose. My only purpose.”

 

A flash of heat, a roaring from the core of her—  _ anger _ . “You would have me marry a dead man, Jon Snow?” she spat. “You would marry me, charm me and bed me and perhaps even love me, only to rush headlong into death and leave me? So that you may have use of my dragons to fulfill your only purpose, as you say?”

 

Her words seemed to slice through him one by one like barbs. He shook his head furiously. “No.” The word was less a word, and more a snap of an ember, hot and blazing. “Daenerys, you must understand… before you I was… I had sworn oaths that forbid everything I have been granted with now.” He looked at her, and what resided in his eyes was something Dany could scarcely hold. “Before you, I had no hope. Before you, I was already a dead man.”

 

She stilled, everything within her locked up. 

 

He took a step closer, and she could just smell him— snowmelt and woodsmoke. Fire and ice. The elemental transformation of the earth hidden within his woodsy scent. “Alone, I was a dead man. Slain by my own brothers.” He started tugging at his hauberk, plucking at the knot of his gambeson at his shoulder, before hooking two fingers under the collar of his tunic and pulling it aside. 

 

She gasped, her first thought being that he must seek the help of a maester, for the mark he had revealed looked no older than a few hours. “Jon—“ she choked. 

 

“A red priestess brought me back,” he went on, righting his clothes. “And for a long while, Daenerys, I believed that I was brought back to die.”

 

That anger found her again, flaring back into life like a bed of embers hit with an icy blast of wind. “You think so little of yourself, Jon Snow?” Her tone came out as almost scolding. 

 

“It’s not a matter of what I think,” he said, throwing out a hand in a helpless, defeated sort of gesture. “Death is supposed to be irreversible… but when it is reversed, what else am I to think? I was brought back for  _ something _ .” His eyes were black and blazing, his chest lifting and falling as if he was winded. “I had accepted that I was given my life again only to die fighting, but now I can’t—” he shook his head. “I can’t.”

 

She stepped forward slowly, her heart pounding in her mouth, her lungs closing up fast. “You were not brought back only to die on a plane of snow with a bloody sword in your hand, Jon. You will not die. I will not allow it.”

 

She was caught up in his arms before she could scarcely take a breath, and his lips were crushed to her own. 

 

She gasped into his mouth as he yanked her to him, a broad hand spreading over the back of her head, another at the small of her back. She brought her own to thread through his beard, card through his hair, and they clumsily raced into unfamiliar waters together.

 

They were both starved for each other, somehow, and so they sank into one another like stones to a riverbed, drowning, caught up in the current. She opened her mouth under his own and he accepted the invitation greedily and she was left momentarily stunned by the ferocity of it, the heat and passion and longing that lay under his bones. 

 

He pulled away first, and she had to blink away a haze— a heady, weighty spell having overwhelmed her in their embrace. 

 

He was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed and pupils blown. He pressed his forehead upon her own. “I have been wanting to do that almost since the moment I met you.” 

 

“I’m not so sure I would have refused you,” she replied, a bit breathless herself and he laughed weakly before kissing her again. 

 

When they broke apart once more, her legs were watery, just like in those tales she had heard as a girl, a clenching heat growing low in her belly. She hooked her fingers under the openings of his hauberk at the shoulder. Feeling strangely possessive. Powerful. “How long must we wait until I am married to you, Jon Snow?”

 

He grinned, looking deliriously happy and disbelieving all at once. “I can call the septon in here, if you wish.”

 

She laughed. “I don’t want to think of the complaints we would get about that.” 

 

He pressed his brow to her own again with a quiet laugh. “You need your people here with you.” She looked up at him, her heart aching, too heavy to reside within her and her alone any longer. She needed him to help her carry this immeasurable weight. “I have all my people here already. You need yours, Daenerys.”

 

She had no blood family to witness her binding with the man before her, but she had people as good as, and his deft recognition of that astounded her. She nodded shakily. “I would prefer they be here to witness it, yes.” 

 

“How long will it take for them to get here?”

 

Her heart fell at that. Her armies travelled by land and would not be here for weeks, and her household came by ship— much faster, but… “A week, at the least.” 

 

His smile faltered, but he managed to regain it. “A week it is.” 

 

She was pleased that he seemed as impatient as she to get on with it. She could feel his desire for her in the hands at her waist, in the heat of his gaze, but she already knew that he would not come to her until they were wed properly, and she could not help but feel irritated at that. 

 

It did not mean they couldn’t have some fun in the meantime. 

 

Just as she was conjuring wicked deeds in her head, Jon stepped back from her a fraction, brushing a hank of hair behind her ear. She quite liked the gesture. “Tyrion seemed to want to say more,” he began roughly, “before you shooed everyone out.” 

 

She pulled her lips over her teeth, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. She looked to her boots, gathering her courage. “A king consort cannot inherit the crown.” 

 

He looked at her, not understanding in the least, but she let the words hang in the air, looked at him bravely. His eyes cleared, his previous befuddled expression slackening in sudden comprehension. “Daenerys…” He shook his head, his throat seeming closing up on him. “Why?”

 

“I cannot have children,” she stated, trying and succeeding at hiding the sadness behind the words. “And so I must name an heir apparent. As my husband, you would be rightful heir, but only if you choose to rule alongside me, as King of the Seven Kingdoms, whenever I take the throne.” 

 

“Why?” he croaked, “Why me?”

 

She sighed, not fully understanding it herself. “Because… I see myself in you, Jon. We both want the same things, though we may go about it in different ways. And if… I should perish, I would rest easier knowing that you would be there to see my vision for the world fulfilled.” 

 

He was silent at this, looking limp, bereft. She started to pace before him, his inaction setting her on edge. “But it is not a condition of my marriage offer, only an option.”

 

He cleared his throat, looking to the floor, hands clenching at his sides, hopelessly restless. She stepped closer to him, grabbing up one of those fidgeting hands in both her own. They were large, calloused, scarred. The hands of a warrior. How would they feel upon her, she wondered, in the coming days? In the coming  _ years _ , gods willing? 

 

“I’ve been alone most of my life, Jon,” she went on quietly, looking to a torch flickering on the opposite wall. “My brother was a fool and a coward, my abuser and my master. My first husband… I came to love him in time, but he was cruel, ruthless. He only came to love me when I could better please him in our bed. When I could give him the son he craved.” She felt him tense under her hands. She swallowed hard, not knowing how to really say the next words, but knowing she needed to all the same. “I had expected to marry when I came here, Jon, but I also expected to be alone.” She dared to glance up at him, and the way he was looking at her struck all the air from her lungs. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” 

 

He turned more fully to her after a moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity. He cupped her face in his free hand, a thumb brushing over the cap of her cheek. “There is only one throne,” he protested weakly, the smile he gave her a watery, wavering thing. 

 

She laughed, tears standing in her eyes. “It is no matter,” she gasped, “I will make another.” 

 

The kiss that followed burned straight to the core of her, a promise branded onto her very bones, the ghost of the touch would abide within her forever. 

 

She would have let him have her right there, right there upon the wall he pushed her up against, the heat he was stoking within her only able to be doused by his skin on hers. And he might have allowed her to take him, right there in his sister’s dusty office, but a knock on the door broke them from their spell.

 

They tore away from each other, each panting as if they had sprinted a league. She had not known that she had wrapped her legs around his hips until he loosed his arms from her middle and she slowly slid down the stone wall. She felt as wobbly as a newborn lamb.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, not sorry in the least bit, his voice so deep, as rough as a thicket of brambles, it nearly had her reeling like some green maid in his arms. They stood there, brow to brow, breaths evening slowly in the silence of the room. 

 

“Your Graces?” the voice of her Hand floated through the closed door and that seemed to be the final straw. They pulled away from each other, reluctant, and began straightening clothes and smoothing hair. 

 

She opened her mouth to give word to Tyrion to come in, but stopped short with Jon’s hand on her arm. She turned back to him in question. 

 

“I accept your terms, my queen,” he said quietly. 

 

She bit back her smile, having to tear her eyes away from him before she told Tyrion to find something else to occupy himself before finishing what they had started. His acceptance was not what charmed her, she had assumed as much already. 

 

“I am glad to hear it,” she replied, “my king.”

 

+++

 

Arya Stark had spent years trying to be nobody. 

 

She had failed, in the larger scheme of things. She could never erase all of herself, could never let Needle sink to the bottom of Ragman’s Harbor. But she was still able to go unnoticed, to remain unobserved so she may observe. 

 

She observed that her little brother Bran had perhaps achieved what she could not— had shed the identity of Bran Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark and heir to Winterfell, to become something she could not wholly understand. 

 

She observed that her sister, Sansa, had also divested herself of the girl Arya once knew. Gone were the idealistic notions, the quiet disdain for the North and much of its customs, the girlish yearnings of knights and princes. She had become the Lady of Winterfell, a true red wolf baring her teeth at any threat that dared approach her and her home. 

 

She observed Jon, her dearest friend and precious big brother. Her childhood comrade in their shared incomplete exile. The man who had a sword forged her, an instrument reserved for men. A blade that had saved her in more ways than one. 

 

He was a king, now. Bastard of Winterfell turned King in the North… and yet had changed the least of all of them. He was still stubborn, loving, and good to his core, but he carried a new sort of worldliness to him now. A boy who had sought a purpose for so long, now a man unsure of how to properly bear the immensity of the one he was given. A boy who had been unused to death and treachery, now a man intimately familiar with both and more. 

 

A boy denied love his whole life, now a the subject of adoration from thousands, and the love of many. 

 

But one in particular. 

 

She kept particularly close to the Dragon Queen, a woman Arya had only heard tales of that seemed as fanciful as the ones Old Nan used to tell her before bed. A woman with dragons circling over her home and enormous armies marching up the length of a continent to meet them. 

 

She wanted to trust her, this Targaryen princess of near legend, but she was set to marry her brother in only a few days time. Arya was fairly sure there was no woman living who would be good enough for Jon, but perhaps Daenerys Targaryen could come close.

 

Or perhaps not. 

 

Small things. Arya always had an eye for small things. Things like the soft, almost astonished looks the queen would give her brother over supper, or the way Jon held his hand over the small of her back as he showed the queen his home. The one morning Arya had found the queen crouched next to Ghost in the mud of the training yard, two white lights in the muck. Her look of surprise and delight when Arya had told her Jon had been the one that had given her Needle. 

 

But she still felt uneasy, still reluctant to believe that her home’s only savior was also in love with her brother, that she would protect Jon as fiercely as Arya ever would. She needed…  _ more. _

 

The Hall was crowded, almost all of the lords and ladies of the North gathered below the high table. She stood just behind Jon’s chair, in the center, with Sansa to his left and the queen to his right. 

 

The queen’s company had arrived that morning. The wedding was to be that same night. 

 

“This is the best thing for our people,” Jon protested, words heavy and heated with all the authority that Arya never knew had been be lying in wait within him in his tone. “Without this offer of marriage, we stand no chance against the dead.”

 

Lord Royce, of all people, stood, his face the picture of haughty disdain. Arya knew well that he did not agree with Jon’s appointment as king—  _ “The lad’s a good man, but he is a bastard afterall. Whoever heard of a bloody bastard ascending to a throne?”  _ she had heard him postulate one evening after supper. 

 

Arya had almost put him on her list just for that.

 

“Your Grace,” Lord Royce began, the sound of his insufferable voice making Arya take a step forward, “the North named you their king to rule in the North, to  _ remain _ in the North. Now you mean to marry a Targaryen? The enemy of your father and father’s father?”

 

“I’ll remind you, Lord Royce, that though you have sworn for my sister, you have little to no say as to what I decide to do with the North and how to rule it,” Jon snapped.

 

“What’s best for us, aye, that’s what you claim,” another voice spoke up from the crowd. Lord Glover.  _ “Bloody fool is only thinking with his cock. Look at her! She must have put a bloody spell on him.” _

 

Arya  _ had _ put Glover on her list for that. 

 

“But I have eyes, Your Grace, I can see what it is you claim is best for your people.” 

 

A silence fell upon the Hall that seemed dangerous, it laid so heavy upon them. Arya glanced over at her brother, whose shoulders had tensed. “I will give you a moment to rethink your words, my lord. I will not give this chance again.” 

 

“I believe this is your  _ third _ chance, Lord Glover,” Sansa added, her tone icy. 

 

To his credit, the man sunk back into his seat, looking chided and wounded. 

 

Sansa stood, crossing her hands in front of her. “This marriage brings more than men and dragons to see us through this war, my lords.” She paused, looking to Jon and Daenerys, who both gave her approving looks. “My brother would serve not as just king consort, my lords, but as King of the Seven Kingdoms outright.” A mighty clamor met these words, mostly cries of elation and victory, but some shouts of anger and protest. Arya scanned the crowd carefully— Royce looked as though he was choking on a piece of spoiled meat. “A son of Eddard Stark, serving as king. A man of the North in King’s Landing, a place where the North is a mere afterthought as a rule.” 

 

“Are you mad?” Royce blustered, shooting to his feet once again. “This is what we all feared!” Once again, the Hall grew deathly quiet. Royce looked around the room, casting about for allies in the crowd to his outburst. “Well, can’t you see, my lords? The boy is a bloody bastard! He was named Lord Commander and grew tired of that. Now, why be king of one kingdom when you can rule seven?” 

 

‘ _ Royce’ _ Arya intoned to herself, placing him right above Glover as the whisperings of many mouths grew like the scattering of locusts. Her hand was tight on the pommel of Needle, every nerve in her body wanting to vault over the table and drive her dragon bone blade into Royce’s enormous mouth. She looked to Jon, who seemed too furious to even speak. Sansa stood, as frozen and unmoving as a tree. 

 

The silence was broken by the scrape of a chair, and at Arya’s other side, Daenerys Targaryen brought herself to her feet, the vision of queenly dignity, but with a fire behind her eyes that almost made Arya gasp. 

 

“I am unfamiliar with Westeros, my lord, it is true,” she began levelly, a tiny smile lighting her face. “I was born here, but lived my life in foreign lands. Lands where the concept of bastardy do not exist. In Essos, the idea that a child should be punished for the circumstances of their birth is ludicrous. There are many ideas in Essos that I found alien and strange to me— like slavery and pleasure houses... but this is not one of them.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “It was my decision, and mine alone, to name Jon Snow king, to rule alongside me as equals once the throne is won. The only ambition your king is truly guilty of, my lord, is sacrificing his life for the good of his people.”

 

Royce looked deeply uncomfortable, his eyes searching again for rescue among the crowd of lords and ladies. None met his eyes with anything more than fear or dislike.

 

“You might find that I am less able to suffer fools, my lord,” Daenerys went on, a deadly edge honed upon her words, “Jon Snow is to be my king same as yours, and I will not tolerate such talk about him within my hearing again.”

 

Arya watched as the queen took up her chair again, and Lord Royce, looking pale and fearful, also sunk back down onto the bench among much rustling and whispering. Lyanna Mormont was looking up to the high table where the queen was sat with an expression of shocked admiration. 

 

Jon seemed locked in much the same spell, and that’s when Arya knew… there was nothing to be afraid of. 

 

Daenerys Targaryen was in love with her brother, same as he was with her.  

 

After a stunned pause, Jon stood, leaning his fists upon the table before him. “Is there anything else that you would like to say to me? Any other insults and suspicions and wild accusations you can spin like gossiping milkmaids, my lords and ladies?” Arya couldn’t help but grin, a bit wicked. Her brother seemed to have just as little patience for fools as he always had. “Speak now. I haven’t much time. The queen and I have a war to prepare for.”

 

Silence met these words, most of the faces below looking chided and morose. 

 

Sansa adjourned the meeting, with instructions and times for the celebration that would take place in just a few hours. It was to be a more sedate affair, especially compared to most royal weddings, but they had not the time nor the resources for something lavish. Arya knew her brother would balk at such a display, besides. 

 

She reached out to take hold of Jon’s wrist as he moved to leave. He stilled, looking at her in question. At her back, she could feel Daenerys pausing, and Jon’s eyes flicked to her, giving her a tiny nod, and the queen and all the rest of them filtered from the room noisily. 

 

“I’m happy for you, brother,” Arya offered quietly, though her heart seemed to be constricting beyond its limits. 

 

His eyes were overbright as he brought her to his chest, hugging her fiercely. 

 

There was little to hope for before. Survival was the only option. But perhaps she could dare to hope for something more, now, for at least a little while yet.

 

+++

 

It had started to snow. 

 

It came down in thick sheets, though there was no wind. The Godswood was quiet, the snowflakes falling in a hushed murmur upon the leafy, mossy ground. The lanterns lighting the path to the heart tree ignited the flurries surrounding them, turning into torrents of flame and ice. 

 

Only a chosen few people stood as witnesses— his sisters and brother, Davos, Ghost, and a handful of Northern dignitaries made up his retinue. Daenerys’ attendees consisted of her friend and advisor Missandei, Tyrion, Lord Varys, Qohno, captain of her Dothraki, and Grey Worm, captain of the Unsullied. 

 

Jon had initially reveled in the thought of what remained of his family being beside him for this, an event he hadn’t even so much as dreamt of coming to pass, but now he was quite certain that even the score of people around him was entirely too much. 

 

He wasn’t certain if he’d ever been so nervous in his life. He’d only been to one wedding before, and even then, he’d been so young he could scarcely remember it. 

 

What do you do with your hands? How do you hold your face? How long did this last?

 

_ “Northern weddings are mercifully brief, Your Grace,”  _ Davos had assured him before they had made their way to the Godswood.  _ “Be thankful you don’t have to tolerate the fuss and pomp of a marriage in a sept.” _

 

He supposed  _ that _ was some small blessing at least. 

 

It did not change the fact that he was about to marry a woman in the first place. It was almost too much to consider that he was about to marry the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, a lost Targaryen princess who had brought magic and mythos back into the world. That through this marriage, not only would he give his people--  _ their _ people the best chance at survival-- he would effectively become King of the Seven boody Kingdoms.

 

_ Gods _ , what was he doing? He should call this whole thing off now. What a fool—

 

His wild thoughts lurched to a halt when he saw her, striding confidently through the fresh snow, arm in arm with ser Jorah Mormont, looking odd shed of his usual armor. 

 

She was a splendid sight, radiant in a white coat veined with red. The sharp shoulders and dragonbone chain that held her inky black ‘maiden’ cloak over her shoulders made her seem more a warrior queen than a blushing bride. 

 

He cleared his throat, gathering his strength before it fled him entirely. 

 

Daenerys and Jorah halted a few paces from him, and Jon thought he would never deserve the look she was giving him, as if everything was perfectly right with the world. As if she wanted to claim him right then and there in the snow and slush. 

 

His heart did something very queer and very painful in his chest, wanting nothing more than to step forward and answer the desire that lay behind her eyes. 

 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Davos began from in front of the yawning face of the weirwood, his hands folded behind his back. 

 

“Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” Daenerys answered for herself, a departure from convention.

 

But, he supposed, she was an unconventional bride. And he perhaps an even more unconventional groom. 

 

“Who comes to claim her?” Jorah asked after a pause. 

 

“Jon Snow of House Stark,” Jon answered, his voice shockingly steady. His courage was quickening, his spine straight and sure. Fear had fled in the face of his own desire, his own assuredness that she wanted this as much he. 

 

Davos nodded to Daenerys. “Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, do you take this man?”

 

A tiny, pleased smile. “I take this man.”

 

Jorah stepped to the side, taking up Daenerys’ hand and pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles, before taking up a space between Missandei and Grey Worm. Daenerys walked forward and took Jon’s offered hand and they knelt down together on the cold earth, heads bowed. 

 

He had knelt in front of a tree much like this what seemed like a lifetime ago now. He had looked into the face of the god of his father and swore to take no wife or hold no lands. 

 

This was a  _ new _ life now, he reminded himself. Not many men were so blessed, to gain a second life. How foolish he had been, for assuming that such a mighty gift was to only be wasted upon a battlefield. 

 

Now, he bowed his head to the gods to beg for the strength to protect and care for his new wife. For the wisdom to rule his people fairly and well. For the courage to fight and win and  _ live. _

 

He glanced over to Daenerys, whose eyes were closed, lips parted slightly. He felt a rush of warmth and was glad when Davos spoke up. “Have you begged for the Old Gods’ blessing?” 

 

“Aye,” and “yes,” met this question and they looked at each other with amused, besotted expressions before Jon rose and helped Daenerys to her feet. 

 

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” Davos declared, unable to keep the smile from his face. 

 

Jon stepped forward, fiddling with the chain holding Daenerys’ Targaryen cloak over her shoulders. It came free after a moment and he handed it to a waiting Missandei. He turned to Sansa who passed him the pearly white cloak she had made with her own hand. 

 

Jon swung it about Daenerys’ shoulders and fastened it, the process a bit less intricate than that of her old cloak. The white mantle was plush and swallowed her diminutive form up to the tops of her ears. She looked even more beautiful than before. 

 

In truth, the ceremony was now done, but Jon couldn’t help himself, and he leaned forward to kiss her, the sight of her too powerful a thing to resist. 

 

And  _ gods _ she kissed him back, one, cold, gloved hand coming to his cheek. 

 

They broke apart after a very pointed cough from Davos. Jon grinned, delirious with joy. “It’s tradition for the groom to carry the bride to the wedding feast,” he told her.

 

Daenerys rolled her eyes and yelped in surprise when he swung an arm under her knees and scooped her up. Many of their guests were already turning away, making their way into the warmth and comfort (and plentiful ale) of the Great Hall. Ghost loped along in front of them, seemingly as happy as his master was in that moment. 

 

She felt so small in his arms. The feeling was difficult to reconcile with the sight of her descending from the shoulders of a dragon as if it were no more than a litter just a few days ago. She had seemed more than a woman then-- some divine creature of death and ruin, of life and salvation all at once. 

 

“I’ve heard there are other silly wedding traditions in Westerosi culture, my lord,” Daenerys said as she wrapped her arms about his neck. 

 

“Aye,” he replied, his mood darkening. “The bedding.” 

 

“As pleasant as I find this particular tradition,” she said with a nod of her head, indicating their current position, “I must request that we perhaps… omit that particular custom.”

 

He barked a laugh, trying very hard not to imagine what he would do to any man fool enough to presume to touch her. “I will not protest,” he answered, glancing down at her. “I’d rather not kill anyone tonight.” 

 

“Nor I,” she replied with a sigh. “I don’t think your bannermen would approve if I sent Drogon after one of their silly daughters for even trying such a thing.”

 

The imagined threat triggered something queer in his brain. He felt a bit light-headed. Luckily, they were almost to the entrance of the Great Hall. He could hear the sound of flutes and drums and the yammer of hundreds spilling from the doors. He placed her down upon the frosty, rutted mud. She was like a polished fire opal among the mire, brilliant and blazing. “I did not take you to be the jealous sort, my lady.”

 

She scoffed, lifting a hand to tug at one of the straps of his cloak. “Not jealous,” she said, her eyes turning up to look at him, the light behind them fierce and hungry. “I protect what is mine. And you belong to me, now. And I, to you.”

 

To try to resist her at that point would prove as fruitless as using a thimble to douse a campfire.

 

He tugged her closer and captured her tiny gasp in his mouth, starving for all those sounds, desperate to learn the language of her pleasure. 

 

Her hands snaked around his neck and his hands flexed upon her hips under her cloak. Every touch was sending him further into dangerous waters, his mind clouding with desire, his world shaped by her heat and scent. 

 

He willed himself to halt, bringing one of his hands to her jaw so they could look at each other, taking in the rarity of the other. 

 

That was what she was. A rare creature, precious upon the earth. One he wished to learn how to care for properly. 

 

He looked around as the clouds of their breaths mingled. The guests of the Godswood had already filtered into the Great Hall, leaving the courtyard deserted save for a couple of disinterested guards and Ghost, who hung back a pace from them, snuffling at a discarded chicken bone in the snow. 

 

He met her eyes again, and her pupils were blown, her cheeks flushed, lips parted. 

 

_ “Rules don’t really apply to you like they do to the rest of us,” _ his sister’s words echoed through his besotted haze. 

 

He gathered up her hand. “There is one foolproof way to ensure the bedding never comes to pass.” 

 

Her eyes widened, shocked and confused, before she bit her lip, catching on. “You know this castle better than I ever could, Jon Snow.”

 

He smiled, tugging at her hand. “Come on.” 

 

+++ 

 

Dany bit her lip to stifle her laugh as they slipped through the bustling kitchen hand in hand. “Your Grace!” came the scandalized gasp of one of the old kitchen maids. 

 

They slipped through a side passage and up a narrow wooden stair, nearly running headlong into a servant and upending the kettle she carried. 

 

“Apologies, Wyla,” Jon whispered to the poor girl hurriedly. “Are you hurt?”

 

The woman looked between the both of them, her eyes wide and mouth bobbing open and shut in wonder. “N-no,” she managed with a clumsy curtsy, “Your Graces.”

 

For some reason, the title sent a thrill of pleasure through Daenerys that she couldn’t really explain. Gods, what was happening to her? Sneaking about servants’ passages like a naughty child, feeling giddy at the sound of a title that they had both been addressed with many times before. 

 

But, it was...  _ different _ now. 

 

“Forgive me,” Jon said with a nod, continuing up the stairs with her hand still in his. 

 

The girl curtsied again, looking all the world like she had just careened into and been addressed  _ by name  _ by--

 

Royalty. 

 

The future King of the Seven Kingdoms and his wife-- the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

 

_ Seven hells.  _

 

Daenerys offered the woman a graceful smile and they continued up the stairs. 

 

They came upon a door and they stepped through and into a shadowy corridor.

 

“Am I to see your room, Jon Snow?” 

 

He flashed her a smile as he looked at her from over his shoulder. “Aye, it’s closest.” She had to bite her lip again, his eagerness flattering. “If that’s agreeable.”

 

“I only hesitate because I will need to change clothes,” she pointed out, drawing to a stop. “I cannot wear this heavy coat to the feast.”

 

He turned toward her, looking mystified. “You intend to go to the feast?” 

 

“And why not?” she asked with a disbelieving laugh. “It is for  _ us _ , afterall, and I have heard that it is poor luck to miss one’s wedding feast. And that is no way to begin a marriage.” 

 

He grinned. “You are a superstitious woman, Daenerys Targaryen.” 

 

It was the first time he had ever addressed her with her full name, formed with those full lips and drawling Northern burr that seemed to have some strange power of its own over her. 

 

“I am  _ cautious _ ,” she corrected, smoothing her hands over the supple mantle of his magnificent cloak. As good of a crown as any for a king from such a wild realm. “Besides, don’t you want to make a fool of yourself on the dancefloor again? As man and wife?”

 

He stepped closer to her, tangling a hand in her hair, looking at her in that way he had in the Godswood, as if she were the finest vision he had ever beheld. “Say it again.” 

 

His voice was low, throaty, and it slipped into her like a drug. She leaned closer to him, hands cupping his jaw. “Man and wife.” 

 

He released a long breath before kissing her. Long, languid, thorough. “We shall go to the feast,” he told her as they parted, his voice merely a rumble. “I had intended make it quite…  _ unlikely _ for us both to leave our bed for at least a day, but you present a strong argument.”

 

Her eyebrows shot up in shock. She had imagined Jon Snow in her bed, of course. Had imagined what he may be like with her. Before she had met him, her assumptions had been that he would be like most men-- greedy, rough, and blessedly quick.  _ “I’ve not heard much about the men of Westeros and their… talent for lovemaking,”  _ Missandei had told her one evening shortly after Tyrion had proposed the idea.  _ “Which, I’m sorry to say, my lady, does not bode particularly well.” _

 

But, as she had gotten to better know her new husband, those assumptions had transformed to something more along the line of lavacious fantasies. A man as fine as Jon Snow could not be a dolt in bed, she had assured herself. Even still, she had relegated much of her desires to mere girlish wishes. A good husband, with a good, gentle heart, who would protect her as fiercely as she did him, and be kind and perhaps even generous in their bed-- that was enough. It was simply greedy, to truly wish for more than that. 

 

But, perhaps she  _ could _ wish for more than that. The thought left her breathless. 

 

“Well, let’s not discount anything just yet, my lord,” she replied as smoothly as she could after a short pause. 

 

He laughed, gathering up her hand once again. “Just in case,” he said, “we will adjourn to your rooms. They’re most likely nicer than mine anyway.” 

 

They continued their journey, this time a bit more hastily. She waved the two Unsullied guards off and as soon as they were through the door, she was pressed against it, trapped between it and his lean, solid body. 

 

She drank from him, his scent intoxicating, his taste sparking between her teeth. She raked her fingers through his hair, undoing the tie that held it back with one deft flick of her thumb. She groaned, having wanted to do this almost since the day she met him. He answered by threading his arms under her own, pushing her harder against the door. She got the idea, lifting her legs to fold over his hips. 

 

They barely broke apart when he brought her away from the door, hands greedily cupping her ass from under her cloak and her coat. He walked them unsteadily to her bed, laying her gently upon the furs, before leaning away with a rough breath. 

 

His hands came to rest at the clasp of her new cloak, where the dragon and the wolf mingled, snarling and fearsome even in the soft glow of the sconces. “Daenerys…” he husked, his voice wrecked already and sending shivers under her skin. His eye were wide, something raw and ragged hidden within them. A plea, a confirmation. 

 

She brought her hands to his, and began undoing the fastenings, gazing at him all the while, hoping she could deliver what he sought with her eyes. 

 

_ I want this, I want you. _

 

The cloak fell away from her shoulders with a ‘click’ of silver and she sat up, her new husband seemingly still frozen in wonder before her. Gods, he looked beautiful, lips parted and cheeks red, raven hair all atangle… and he was not even close to naked. 

 

She started at his hands, needing to feel the roughspun that was his palms. She yanked his gloves off, tossing them to the floor. Then she tugged at his cloak, not fully understanding how it really worked, the straps seemingly going under and around his shoulders.

 

He seemed to snap out of it at that, his breath coming in faster now, and he lifted his arms and his cloak joined his gloves in a heap on the floor. 

 

Swiftly and silently, they shucked away layer after layer, until she wore only a shapeless shift and her smalls, and he much the same. It was slow going. She had no inkling of how to undress a Northern man, who bore more clothing than she thought possible. And likewise, he seemed just as mystified by her garb. And that made her think… 

 

How many ladies had her new husband lain with? 

 

Her assumption had been many and more… especially after she had first met him, handsome and lean and wind-tossed on that pier in White Harbor. He could’ve had just about any lady he wished. 

 

But, now she was not so sure. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled as her coat and trousers were finally tossed aside. “I am not accustomed to undressing noble ladies.” 

 

“No?” she asked with a wicked smirk, brushing a hair behind his ear. He smiled at her, a bit bashful. Her heart tightened painfully within her at the sight. “That is something I find hard to believe, Jon Snow.”

 

He looked at her, something fond and strangely sad lining his face, before he leaned closer, drawing him to her with an assertive tug on her hips. “I’m a fast learner,” he growled against her mouth before he kissed her. 

 

She could scarcely breathe, the air around them thickening, her blood igniting like a torch on pitch. His hand was tight on her hip, his fingers splaying, taking in as much of her skin under her shift as he could. She could feel his desire for her through her smalls and she fed him a moan as she snaked a hand lower, curious and impatient, unwilling to wait any longer. 

 

He choked out a groan into her mouth as she took hold of him. She hissed in pleasure at what she found, hot and hard and ready for her. He lowered her onto the bed, atop her discarded wedding cloak. 

 

_ Oh _ , that was a thought. 

 

He seemed to have much the same idea as he broke apart from her, brow to brow, and smiled at her wolfishly. Dany was just going to find something witty to say, something perhaps unseemly and wicked that would make him redden and make her swoon, but she was quite interrupted when both his hands seared a trail under her shift, up her belly and to her breasts. 

 

The feel of them,  _ gods _ , so broad and calloused they rasped against her skin so sweetly. Almost like music. Catgut and horsehair. 

 

Her back arched, wanting him to grasp all of her. Jon tugged the shift up and over her head, pinched a nipple between forefinger and thumb, captured the other in his teeth. He was voracious, his tongue drawing paths of heat and pleasure to the core of her. She delved her hands in his hair, relishing the softness of it, the slip of night-dark curls between her knuckles. 

 

She clenched her fingers into his scalp, urging his face back to her own, swallowing up his labored breath. She tugged ungracefully at the neck of his undertunic, needing to get the full view of him, to feel the expanse of his skin sealed to her own, bare and gooseflsehed without his warmth to comfort her. 

 

Jon leaned away, his eyes dark and hungry as they roved over her heaving chest, her taut belly, the slope of her shoulders and the spray of her hair upon the furs. He seemed momentarily paralyzed, the sight too much for him. 

 

She bit her lip, drawing her hands down over her body, pausing at her breasts to squeeze, then down to her smalls. She hooked her thumbs under the hem and pushed. 

 

He snapped out of it, whatever spell he had been under, and flung his under tunic to the floor. 

 

Dany choked back her gasp, not wanting to embarrass him. There were more of those angry red redhead carved into his skin, and she felt a pulse of wrath thrum through her like a plucked bowstring. The addition of such a primal feeling mingled with the bone deep desire that seized her now made for a potent potion. 

 

She brought herself to her knees in front of him, needing an anchor in the torrent and he met her gaze bravely. There was something pained and strangely…  _ tired _ behind his eyes. A fundamental weariness that had nothing to do with the unknown terrain that laid between them, and everything to do with the map of violence and betrayal upon his chest. 

 

She brushed her palms firmly over his belly, up his chest, over his shoulders, ensuring she touched every last one of them. He was beautiful. Pale and hard-muscled and scar-clad. The labor of life and death forever engraved within him. 

 

Glyphs, she decided. That’s what they were. Symbols of power, of the magic that lived within him. 

 

They crashed together again, mouths open and wanton, breathes deep and desperate as they strived to give each other… whatever  _ this _ was. This bright and blazing energy trapped between their bodies. They both fumbled with each other’s smalls, progress stalled by their hands questing for more new skin to explore. 

 

But, eventually, the offending cloth found the way to the floor, and she wasted no time, taking his cock in hand clenching her fist, sighing in pleasure at how ready he was for her, how thick and perfect he felt in her hand. 

 

“Daenerys,” he rumbled against her ear, his fingers tightening on her scalp, the pull on her hair sweet and painful at once. She felt her knees weaken like a young maid. 

 

She barely had time to gather her wits, to lean away from him and tell him to take her, make her his wife in truth, before he dragged four fingers over her cunt. 

 

She nearly wailed, bracing herself on his shoulders, the pressure both incredible and not nearly enough. Jon groaned in satisfaction at what he found, his eyes closing, relishing her heat and wet as he parted her folds and found her clit. 

 

“Jon, gods…” She hadn’t really realized how close she was. The past week had been torment, seeing him walk the halls in that unfairly flattering gambeson that he had had the stones to wear for their first private audience together. Watching him parry and spin like a top in the yard, sweat-slicked and mud-spattered. It was simply unjust and it only made her idle imagings all the more wild. 

 

He sealed his lips over the pounding of her pulse at her throat, and pushed her down in the furs again, his hand still working at her cunt. She squirmed beneath him, the friction not enough, not nearly enough. She gasped and cried out, her release so close she could almost taste it between her teeth. She dug her nails into his back, but he was being infuriating. Pressing his thumb against her before drawing away to circle at her entrance as he kissed a burning trail down her neck, over her clavicles, to her sternum and breasts, her belly and the crease of her thigh. 

 

Dany nearly yelped in shock when he sunk his teeth into the junction of her thigh and her pelvis. The sensation was unlike anything she’d ever felt and it was delicious, but did little to prepare her for what came next.

 

Jon swiped his tongue over the front of her, from bottom to top, and before she could really understand what he intended to do, he pulled her folds apart with two fingers and pressed his mouth upon her clit. 

 

She wailed, uncaring of how loud it was, how unseemly and unqueenly. Her spine bowed from the bed as he pushed his tongue up and under her, holding it there for a moment that seemed to last forever. 

 

She brought her hands to his head, holding him there, her hips flowing with the rhythm of his mouth seemingly of their own accord. She could feel it, hurtling toward her like a loose stallion, burning and burning, tightening and tightening. 

 

Jon looped an arm around her thigh, pressed the heel of his hand on the top of her hip, and pushed, pinning her down. He brought her clit between his lips, scraping it just everso with his teeth, and plunged a finger inside her. 

 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” she managed before everything clenched up, every nerve and muscle grinding to a halt before quaking in an aftershock that left her breathless and unmoored. 

 

She was only a creature built of  sensation in that moment-- the burn of her lungs clamoring for air within her heaving chest, the scrape of his beard on her thighs as he tried to gentle her landing, the sweet pressure between her shaking legs that just barely relieved the deeper ache that only he could heal. 

 

“Jon,” she panted, her limbs weak and clumsy, her chest still rising and falling heavily. 

 

His mouth answered the plea behind her voice and the taste of herself on his tongue conjured a moan so loud and shameless from her it made him laugh against her lips. 

 

He brought his knees forward, pushed her legs further apart. He braced himself with a hand beside her ear and another under her upper thigh and was inside her in one, swift thrust that wracked a sob from her and a gasp from him.

 

He felt so fucking… good. It was leaving her a bit dizzy, a bit spellbound with both fear and anticipation. How did this-- a less than ideal arrangement made for purely political means-- come to feel as good as what was happening now? And why did it scare her so much? Daenerys Targaryen, who had drowned the Slaver Cities in the blood of evil men and trod into a great pyre to wake dragons from the darkness, terrified of the potential that resided between her and Jon Snow-- bastard, oathbreaker, rebel king. 

 

The same strange fear threaded itself into his eyes, into the tremble behind the hands that flowed up and down her body in reverence. But he came forward, kissing away that doubt, licking a heady promise into her mouth, her breath, and she strove to return it, to seal that queer vow that only a man and woman could forge together, coming away stronger-- a wholly new element. 

 

He moved his hips against her, slow and powerful. “Fuck, Daenerys,” he cursed into her neck, his voice pained, as if it was all too much. 

 

She hooked her ankles behind his back, deepening the angle, meeting him thrust for thrust and his strangled moan against her skin thrummed right into her blood, straight to her cunt. Slick, hot, so tight around him she had to bite down into the meat of his shoulder to keep from crying out. 

 

Both of their movements quickened, became more graceless and savage, need and want tugging and pulling upon them both. Their mouths crashed together again, teeth finding lips, their hands not enough to drink their fill of each other. 

 

Jon pushed a palm under her hip, and his fingers dug greedily into the flesh of her ass, pulling her up and off of the bed entirely. The power and strength behind the move alone almost sent her careening over the edge again. 

 

But the angle was exquisite, the pressure inside her reaching the intolerable as he picked up the pace, no gentleness left to him. Her guarded, cloistered king, falling into the basest parts of himself with her, and she couldn’t be happier. 

 

“Oh gods, fuck, Jon…” A stream of babble left her mouth, not able to fully cope with what was happening to her, unable to articulate anything past the fundamental and primal. 

 

Then there it was, that spark flung into the dark that found its mark, igniting a blazing, hungry fire and she was crying out into his shoulder, nails digging into the back of his neck, scraping red trails into his hair. Her cunt pulsed and clenched around him and she was seized in a tide of pleasure that threatened to spin her clean from the earth.

 

He answered her with a curse and a strangled breath before he was twitching inside her, shaking and panting above her and around her, everywhere. 

 

She had knelt before the Old Gods, not an hour agon, and begged for victory, for a safe haven for her and her people. For her and her new husband. She begged for a babe. 

 

She tucked her hot face into his sweat damp neck, wondering if she could ever pray enough to turn back a witch’s curse. If she could come to love the man in her arms enough that they could simply will a child into the world, together.

 

She felt invincible, with him. Unreachable and unstoppable. Together, they would stare down death. Together, they would bring a new world to fruit. 

 

A feeble hex should be no matter.

 

Her eyes were inexplicably warm, her throat closing up fast and her heart feeling too immense within her. 

 

They simply languished, for a time, holding each other and trying to gather up the last shreds of themselves, trying to reconcile what had just happened. 

 

“Mm,” Jon finally began, just when she thought he might have just drifted off to sleep, “still want to go to that feast?”

 

She laughed, so deliriously happy she could burst, and kissed him. 

 

+++

 

_ “Haven't you seen what I've seen? _ __  
_ Don't you know what you ought to do? _ __  
_ I was born to love _ _  
_ __ and I intend to love you”

 

\-- “Easy” Joanna Newsom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took longer than expected, guys. first, it was *longer* than expected, and second, i swear there's some little goblin following me around, intentionally fucking up any attempt i made to write this over the past week. oh, wanna write? husband has car problems, need to rescue him. oh, wanna write? long-time friend has first comedy show. oh, wanna write? etc., etc...
> 
> anyway, hope you like. this was a real blast for me to write, as i'm unaccustomed to fluff. hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> as always, thanks to the Tarts for their support and awesomeness, and thank you SO MUCH to Justwanderingneverlost for that amazing moodboard. 
> 
> let me know what you think and come say hi on tumblr @frostbitepandaaaaa!

**Author's Note:**

> this took hold of me and would not let go. it's based on a tumblr prompt that won't show up until the third part, so you'll just have to wait and see what it was. 
> 
> i have _lots_ written already. only half of the third part needs to be written. second part will be up tomorrow or thursday depending on how much of the third part i get done with. i am hard at work with Oz, if you happened to be worried, but it seems that my poor trash heart needed a reprieve. 
> 
> this is in a small part dedicated to my friend ashleyfanfic, who is going through some tough times, and will soon be recovering from surgery and will be in sore need of fluffy shit to read. i hope you like it, my dearest friend, and brings you some small amount of comfort. 
> 
> thank you to the wonderful and amazing justwanderingneverlost, as usual, for that stunning moodboard. she is a treasure. 
> 
> tell me what you think, as i have never really written anything like this before and i'm not certain how to feel about it. (and come say hi [@frostbitepandaaaaa](http://frostbitepandaaaaa.tumblr.com))
> 
> this work is unbeta-ed.


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